


A Conditional Pardon

by LondonLioness



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Abuse (mentioned), Casefic meat in a sickfic sandwich, Child Abuse (mentioned), Dissociation, Drug Use, Gen, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mind Palace, PTSD Sherlock, S4 fix it of sorts, Suicidal Ideation, Therapy, What's a Eurus?, redbeard is a dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 48,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21656050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonLioness/pseuds/LondonLioness
Summary: Sherlock stared nervously at the envelope in his brother's hand. "Is that my pardon?"Mycroft pursed his lips. "It's more the procedure you have to go through to earn your pardon. There are conditions.""And I'm not going to like them," the younger brother deduced. He paled suddenly. "Not the mission?""No," Mycroft pronounced firmly. "No mission, no gaol.""Well, so far I love it," Sherlock snarked. "What's the catch?"The elder Holmes visibly braced himself. "Psychiatric treatment."Of course,  in between therapy sessions, Sherlock will have to quite literally save the world.
Comments: 173
Kudos: 172





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Errrmigehrrrd, I finished it! With one and a half hours left in November, I wrote the word "Fin". Then sat back and just stared at it for the longest time....
> 
> So, this is my first long fic. It's where my mind went at the end of TAB, so it's obviously not compliant with S4. In this universe, Redbeard is a dog, Mary Morstan is as evil as can be, and the "other one" is...well, stay tuned!
> 
> OK, I guess we'll just dive right in. I may update tags as we go, so keep an eye open for that, OK? As always, enjoy!

_Sherlock asserts strongly that Moriarty is definitely dead. But he also says he knows what Moriarty is going to do next. Make of that what you will. -- JW_

Mycroft drew a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth, to try and still the sudden tremor in his hands. What he made of it was that his brother's sanity -- never very secure -- was presently hanging by a thread. Of course, he was still under the influence. Possibly, when he came down, he'd be able to explain himself. But Mycroft had to entertain the more likely possibility that there was no explanation beyond the sizzling of synapses frying in a drug-induced frenzy. Given the contents of the list -- oh, that list!-- it was entirely possible not all of Sherlock would come back. 

What to do? He could trust Dr. Watson with Sherlock's physical care, but his little brother's future was still very precarious. Very powerful people were expecting him to bring the detective with him to MI6 so they could immediately start work on the Moriarty broadcast. Finding out they would have to wait while the genius they were depending on was nursed through a drug overdose would hardly dispose them kindly toward him.

With a sigh, the elder Holmes brother entered his mind palace, efficiently sorting through data on the five people he would have to appease. Lady Smallwood he could count on as a staunch ally: she counted Magnussen's murder as the extermination of noxious vermin, and would rather reward Sherlock than punish him. Of the four men, one would be openly hostile: one too many deductions had slipped past Sherlock's lips on one occasion. The remaining three were your quintessential English lords: noble and fair-minded -- or rather, Mycroft understood that this was their image of themselves. Appealing to their sense of _largesse_ might be the best strategy.

Four hours later saw a very tired Mycroft Holmes on the doorstep of 221B clutching a small bag. John's eyebrows rose as he opened the door. 

"Wasn't expecting you," he remarked. 

"And I wasn't expecting to be here," the elder brother rejoined as he stepped into the flat. He could make out Sherlock curled up on the sofa, a sheet tucked around him, dead to the world. "A number of powerful people are very upset right now that Sherlock is in the wind as far as they know. So, to appease them..." and Mycroft drew out of the bag an anklet tracking device. 

"Huh." John eyed the bit of hardware curiously. "Can he get that wet?" 

"Oh, yes, quite waterproof. And I've added some tweaks to make it Sherlock-proof as well." He crossed to the sofa and lifted the sheet off his brother's feet. 

Sherlock stirred sleepily. "Whassit?" he slurred. 

"Hush, baby brother, just me. I brought you some jewelry." 

"Not Uncle Rudy's?" Sherlock mumbled. 

"No, not Uncle Rudy's," Mycroft assured, fastening the anklet. "As if he would part with any of that mountain of faux pearls." 

"Hum," Sherlock agreed. His eyes blinked open, but his gaze was dreamy and unfocused. "Wonder how many oysters they had to go through to find so many pearls?"

"None whatsoever. Faux, remember?" 

"Too many oysters," Sherlock frowned suddenly. "Cover England knee-deep in oysters." 

Mycroft covered his feet back up and went to stand by his head, frowning down on him from his full height. "You're not making sense," he said sternly. "Go back to sleep." 

"M'kay." His eyes drifted closed and he snuggled into his pillow. Within seconds, sleep had reclaimed him. 

Mycroft stayed there, the stern expression morphing into one of deep concern as John joined him. "How is he, John? I see his temperature spiked." 

The doctor blinked. "How do you see that?" 

"The back of his head is damp. I assume you threw him in a cool bath." 

"Right. Not your first time on this ride." 

The elder brother snorted, "Hardly." He turned away and folded himself into Sherlock's chair, weary to the bone. "Although I had let myself hope the last time would _be_ the last time. He was doing so well." 

John felt a stab of sympathy. "I know that feeling. My sibling, too -- but you know that." He drew a breath. "Well. Immediately after we got here, we went through a little over an hour of manic energy, which he spent flogging his laptop, insisting he had to get down his 'case notes.' He kept that up until the detox kicked in in earnest, at which point we went through the delightful stage where fluids pour out of every orifice and he threw up everything he's ever eaten. Then, as you know, his temperature spiked. We literally did throw him in that bath; he was off his head by then and raving in what sounded like six different languages at once. The cold water worked wonders, though: his temp came right down and he regained lucidity. As soon as we got him out, he got very sleepy, as you see. I'm going to let him rest for another half hour, then see if he can keep any fluids down. If not, I'll start an I.V."

"You have everything you need here?" 

John nodded. "Sent Mary out on a supply run first thing. She's upstairs, by the way, having a kip while things are quiet." 

"Naloxone?" Mycroft asked. 

The doctor shook his head. "Had it on hand, but managed to avoid using it. It stresses the heart, and I don't like what I hear when I listen to your brother's heart." Mycroft raised his eyebrows, wordlessly commanding John to elaborate. "It's beating fast, but not strong. I'm not saying a heart attack is imminent, but that's a clear sign of a heart under stress. If you think about it: cocaine use all by itself, let alone an overdose. Cigarette smoking. Poor eating and sleeping habits. Extreme mental and emotional stress. Recent traumatic injury. On a checklist of cardiac stressors, that's almost every item checked except for obesity." He went to his patient, took his temperature with a thermometer in the ear, and tutted at the result. "Back up just a tetch; no cause for concern yet." 

Mycroft retrieved Sherlock's laptop and flipped it open. John said, "The password is..." 

"I'm in." Mycroft rapidly scanned the last document Sherlock had worked on, a frown line deepening between his brows. "Did you read this?" 

"Been a little busy," the doctor replied, taking Sherlock's pulse. "Find anything useful?"

"It's gibberish," Mycroft growled. "A pastiche of the Ricoletti case and Moriarty, sprinkled liberally with non sequiters: 'Remarkably, Watson looks rather good with a handlebar moustache.' " 

_"What?"_

Mycroft scrolled down. "Plum pudding," he mumbled with disgust. Further on: "Dead is the new sexy." 

John blanched. "That's disturbing." 

"A lot of this is disturbing." He tapped at the keys. "I'm emailing this to myself to peruse at my leisure. I do speak fluent Sherlockian; I may be able to pull a gem out of the dross." He started to get up, but was stayed by John. 

"Mycroft. Like I said, my sister -- ah. I know the face of addiction, and that little speech Sherlock gave on the plane about 'controlled usage'..." 

Mycroft nodded grimly. "I know, John. I've heard that speech before, too. It's generally the precursor to a truly spectacular binge." 

"Which I will not let happen," John replied, steel in his voice. "But those cravings are going to hit hard. The Moriarty problem might be sufficient distraction to see him through, but if he's regressed to the point of denying his condition..." 

"Yes, I know." The elder brother rubbed his forehead, trying to stave off a headache. "The timing..." His head snapped up suddenly, eyes brightening. The look was reminiscent of Sherlock on a scent. "The timing," he repeated slowly, "could not be better." He stood up, almost jauntily, and retrieved his umbrella. "Well. I'm off to be a proper big brother." And with that, he was gone, leaving a perplexed John Watson behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you catch the nod to ACD canon in the previous chapter? I'm referring to the oysters, of course, which Sherlock raves about when he feigns illness in "The Adventure of the Dying Detective." I was miffed Moftiss didn't sneak in a reference to oysters in TLD.
> 
> Added a tag...Sherlock discusses contemplating suicide here, so if that would be triggering for you, just skip the chapter, ok?

To Sherlock's disgust, john insisted on monitoring him overnight before declaring him fit to start investigating. The morning saw him consuming breakfast under two pairs of watchful eyes. He was impatient to get started, but John and Mary had made it clear he was going nowhere until they were satisfied as to his physical and mental condition. So he ate sufficiently, if not enthusiastically, and resolved to jump meekly through every hoop they held up. 

After the dishes were cleared away, though, what John pulled out of his pocket and laid on the table was not a hoop but a bomb. 

"What is this?" the doctor asked, rolling the syringe meditatively under his fingers. 

Sherlock felt every defensive shield he possessed slam into place. He replied frostily, "Evidence of an appalling lack of respect for my privacy, seeing that it was hidden in my coat." 

"Yes. What is it?" 

_Yes?_ John wasn't supposed to say yes; he was supposed to note that Sherlock had forfeited any expectation of privacy with his little stunt. Or maybe rave about Sherlock's careless disregard for his own well-being. In short, say _something_ that Sherlock could toss back at him in such a way as to whip the confrontation into a full-blown row, which would end with John saying, "I need some air," and leaving the flat.

But that wasn't possible if John wouldn't engage. So, Plan B: being reasonable. He consciously relaxed the belligerent set to his jaw and dropped his gaze to the table as he said evenly, "It's the drug I didn't take, and therefore irrelevant. Just drop it." He finished this short speech by shooting John a look that said, _Please?_ , letting him see a flash of vulnerability. That usually worked well. 

Not this time. John said flatly, "No. What is it?" 

Mary's feather-light touch on his arm startled him. "Sherlock, please. Talk to us." Her gaze was soft, her smile sweet; compassion oozed out of every pore. God, could she work it. _Assassin bitch,_ he thought, then back-pedaled away from that thought before it fell out of his mouth. _John's wife. Mother of his child. And we get on so well, don't we? Two little sociopaths in a pod._

Right. So: Tell the truth. He shifted in his seat, letting them see him struggle with it. It wasn't an act: this was genuinely difficult. He blurted, "Ketamine." 

John's lips tightened as he noted the amount in the syringe: lethal dose. "That's suicide. Why?" he whispered. 

"The mission was also suicide," Sherlock explained. "It wasn't six months before I completed it; it was six months before it finished me. And when the end did come, it would likely be at the hands of people who are skilled at keeping you alive for a while -- if you get my drift." He couldn't prevent a whole-body shudder as a memory of Serbia washed over him. He drew a deep breath, fighting back the stinging behind his eyes. "I don't believe there is anything after this life. I'd like to, but I just can't suspend logic to that extent. So, in a sense, your last moment lasts forever. I decided to choose my last moment. I took enough drugs to get all floaty, filled my mind with memories of better times, and when the plane got far enough it couldn't make it back in time, I was going to -- go to sleep."

He studied his friends' reactions to this speech. Mary had her hand over her mouth, eyes glistening with unshed tears. John radiated cold fury. 

"He wouldn't do that," he growled. "Mycroft cares for you; he wouldn't just pack you off to your death. He must have had a plan." 

Sherlock shrugged. "He may have had some half-arsed idea about extracting me and spiriting me off to Australia or Outer Mongolia or God knows where, but...well, that leaves all the choices in his hands, doesn't it?" _And I couldn't ever come home, and what would be the point of that? I need home, like I need oxygen. I need ... my friend._ But he could hardly say that out loud, so he released his control enough that his own eyes filled with tears. "Please. I ... don't want to talk about this anymore." 

Mary reached over and squeezed his hand comfortingly. He squeezed the tips of her fingers back and resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his pyjama bottoms. 

John blew his breath out in a huff as he gained his feet. "Right. I'm getting my medical bag. You --" he pointed at Sherlock -- "strip down to your pants. You're getting a thorough examination before I let you set foot out of this flat."

After what felt to Sherlock like an eternity of being poked, prodded and palpated, John put a hand on each of his friend's shoulders and bent down to look the detective straight in the eye. "Two things I'm going to say," the doctor pronounced, "and you are going to take them seriously. First --" he reached down and grabbed Sherlock's wrist. John's hand was not large, but it encircled the wrist easily, thumb and middle finger overlapping a bit. "That is seriously underweight. I don't want to hear any arguments from you; you _will_ consume at least 2,000 calories a day, and _not_ on a diet of chips and biscuits. Secondly, you have smoked your last cigarette. There's a faint but definite wheezing in your lungs when you take a deep breath. You need to stop before that gets any worse." 

"Anything else, Doctor?" Sherlock growled petulantly. 

"Well, 'no drugs' should go without saying, but all things considered, I'll say it anyway." 

Sherlock shot him a death glare, and John folded his arms and glared right back. After a moment, Sherlock relented. "Hmph. Guess I deserve that." 

"I should say so. Get dressed; I'll tell your brother you're good to go." 

John texted: _Came through physically fine; seems mentally stable so far as well. Ordered him to eat and stop smoking. Please back me up. btw, you should quit, too. -- JW_

_Excellent. Am bringing secure devices and files to the flat rather than bringing Sherlock to HQ. Will explain when I arrive. -- MH_

And for the second time in as many days, Mycroft's parting shot produced a perplexed John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just a short chapter this time. I'm in awe of writers that make every chapter the same length; my stories wend their own way. Occasionally, they're kind enough to tell me what's going on .
> 
> Leave kudos and comments and make me smile like a fool....


	3. Chapter 3

Fifteen minutes later, Mary was dressed, coiffed and ready to leave. "Some of us must still work for a living," she chirped, kissing her husband on the cheek, then stretching on tiptoe to do the same to Sherlock. "You boys have fun playing Secret Agent," she called as she sailed out the door. 

John rolled his eyes as he shut the door after her. "She's way too chipper in the morning," he moaned. 

Sherlock snorted affectionately. His own sleeping habits were so irregular he barely noticed if it were morning or night, but he knew that despite years of military training to the contrary, John would take a lie-in any chance he got. 

"Up here, gentlemen," came a familiar voice, and John opened he door to Mycroft leading a pair of technicians laden with equipment. Several high-tech gizmos were quickly and efficiently deployed about the flat. "Gizmo' was the only description John could come up with, but Sherlock seemed to recognise them instantly. 

"You suspect a mole," he deduced. 

"Indeed." Mycroft saw the technicians out, then spoke. "We've traced the transmission. It originated in Serbia." 

Sherlock visibly flinched. "Moran," he said darkly. 

John blinked. "What, the bloke who was working for the North Koreans? Thought he got put away." 

"No relation to Lord Moran," Mycroft corrected. "And by the way, Dr. Watson, that information is considerably above your pay grade." 

"Oops," Sherlock muttered, _sotto voce._

"How fortunate," Mycroft continued, "that I upgraded your security clearance to Ultra for the duration of the emergency. Your wife, however, has no such clearance, for obvious reasons. Are we clear?" 

"Don't share with wife; got it." 

"The Moran in question is Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right-hand man and the one big fish to escape our net. He's a dangerous man, violent to the core. It was his gun-running operation Sherlock encountered in Serbia. The operation was dismantled but Moran remains at large and still commands enormous resources." 

"Doesn't make sense," Sherlock muttered. "Why tip his hand like this?" 

"Why indeed?" Mycroft mused. 

"Could it be misinformation?" John wondered. "Something deigned to draw our attention to Serbia when the real action is elsewhere?" 

"Very astute, John. That is indeed the consensus at HQ." Mycroft picked up one of the cases the techs had left. John had assumed it contained equipment, now he saw it held files. Mycroft pulled these out and plopped them onto the coffee table. "Everything we have on Moran and his operations, past and present, verified and suspected. Files as well on known associates and everything we have on the transmission itself." He handed his brother a piece of paper. "Passwords to access MI6 files. Please use them instead of just hacking in. Every time you cause a security breach, we need to upgrade. It's getting expensive." Sherlock mimed a pout but dutifully laid the list by his laptop. "Do your magic with the thumbtacks and yarn, little brother; we need to know which trail to follow. Time is of the essence."

John saw him out, then turned to see Sherlock staring at the spot his brother had been, eyes narrowed. "Odd," he pronounced. 

"What?" 

"Why is time of the essence? There was no specific threat attached to the broadcast." 

John shrugged. "I assume the perpetrators will be harder to catch the longer this takes." 

Sherlock dismissed this with an impatient gesture. "Of course, but the way he said it ... he expects something to happen soon, but why?" 

"You're overthinking it," John groused. "Any way I can help?" 

"Hmmm." He sorted through the files and handed John eight. "I'm going to study the technical details of the transmission while you pre-digest the Known Associates folders for me. I need to know the type of operations each man is running and his geographic sphere of influence. Also, work up a spreadsheet of each Known Associate's known associates; let's see if any names recur." 

Two hours later, John was moderately proud of himself. He'd decided to go graphic with the information. On a map of the world, he'd color-coded each man's sphere of influence and added icons to represent the operations under his command. (He'd expected guns and drugs to be the main commodities, but had been horrified to learn human trafficking was by far the most lucrative enterprise.) He printed out his masterpiece along with the spreadsheet (not nearly as pretty, but still very serviceable in the doctor's own humble opinion). Sherlock was in his thinking pose: hands steepled, eyes closed, so John spent the next few minutes jotting down miscellaneous thoughts about each man. It made for a rather incoherent jumble, but he'd seen his most random comments spark fruitful trains of thought in his genius friend, so he mentally filed the exercise under "possible light conduction" and kept at it until Sherlock breathed a heavy sigh and pushed back his chair.

"Inescapable. Once you trace the transmission around the globe and peel back the layers of deception everything points to Moran." 

John hesitated on the verge of handing over his (unnecessary?) work. "So, that's it then?" 

Sherlock snorted. "Hardly. Everything points to him like a bright red flashing neon arrow. This is someone telling British Intelligence to 'go sic 'im.' " He plucked the papers out of John's hand, hummed in appreciation at the map and pasted it in the middle of the crime wall. John preened a bit at that, and more so when Sherlock bypassed the meticulous spreadsheet for his scribbled notes. 

"The elusive Marcus Monaughy," he read. "Why elusive?" 

"No photographs," his partner explained. "He's definitely a big fish; runs a human trafficking ring out of Poland, but no one's ever seen the man himself. It's like trying to ccatcch a glimpse of a cloistered nun." 

"Interesting." The next few hours saw Sherlock posting photos and notes on the wall, stringing yarn between connexions, pacing and muttering over the information, throwing himself on the sofa in his thinking pose only to explode from it minutes later to shuffle notes or add a new length of yarn -- in short, working as hard and as well as John had ever seen. If it hadn't been for the man's overall gaunt appearance, he could almost believe the last three years had never happened. _And why should I wish that? That'd be wishing away Mary and the baby. No ... no, just longing for the good old days, I guess._

Lunchtime came and went. John made a plateful of finger food Sherlock could scoop up and eat without breaking stride. The stratagem worked: he ate a substantial portion of it. 

Shortly after the dishes were cleared away, Mycroft returned, this time bearing only a single manila envelope. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of the crime wall, thick with notes and criss-crossing yarn. 

"Someone's been busy, I see," he remarked. 

"Someone's been _working,_ " Sherlock corrected. 

"Right." Mycroft settled himself in John's chair, folded his hands over his umbrella handle and looked up expectantly. "What do you have so far?" 

"Background first," Sherlock started. "He was never James Moriarty, he was James _the_ Moriarty, 'Moriarty' being the name of the head of criminal clan, like 'Godfather.' " He shrugged. "Obvious in retrospect. Moriarty was a young man, younger than me. He couldn't have built up such a vast empire on his own; he had to have inherited it or taken it over from somebody." He retrieved his laptop and opened the file of the transmission. To John, it looked like strings of random numbers, but the Holmes brothers were apparently able to parse some meaning out of it. "I concur with MI6's analysis of the transmission: someone wants us to take out Moran. Which is not to say that taking out Moran is a bad idea: if he stands poised to adopt the mantle of the Moriarty, he could become even more dangerous."

"So who are our prime suspects?" 

"Two." Sherlock traced a length of red yarn with his finger. "Anton Dvorak, Moran's right-hand man. As Moran stands ready to inherit Moriarty's crown, Dvorak stands ready to inherit Moran's." 

"Some right-hand man," John muttered. 

"No honour among these thieves, Dr. Watson," Mycroft answered. "The second possibility?" 

"Marcus Monaughy. Runs human trafficking out of Poland. His sphere of influence abuts Moran's. Historically, one had trafficking and the other had guns, but now both are branching out into drugs, which puts them in direct competition." 

"Of the two...?" 

Sherlock considered a moment. "Monaughy. There's a lot of drug money up for grabs; a lot of money is a lot of motive. The timing is wrong for Dvorak. He's better served letting Moran clean up the mess left by Moriarty's death and my subsequent activities. While Moran spends time and resources on that, Dvorak will be solidifying his position, ready to strike in two or three years." 

"I concur," Mycroft said. 

"I gotta ask something," John blurted. "I realise I'm speaking as a layman, with no understanding of the nuances, but -- you have all this information on these criminal overlords. You know who they are, where they are and what they're doing. Why are they still at liberty? They're worse than scum; they should all be rounded up and stuffed in a dark hole somewhere."

"You're absolutely right, Doctor," Mycroft intoned. 

"I am?" 

"You are speaking as a layman with no understanding of the nuances." The elder Holmes leaned back and steepled his fingers, entering "lecture" mode. "In the first place, as Gregory would no doubt confirm, there is a huge gap between "knowing" someone is guilty and building a case against them. But the larger reason is the reason the U.K. and America don't charge into North Korea, guns blazing, in the name of all that is right and good. To do so would destabilize the entire region, with consequences that are unforeseeable and possibly disastrous." He peered up at John, steel glinting in his eyes. "Make no mistake: the criminal underclass is a world unto itself, and those spheres of influence are nations. Or did you not notice the sums of money being moved around exceed the Gross National Product of some countries?" 

"So the money talks," John said thickly. 

"It can't be ignored" Mycroft agreed. "These people own politicians, judges, diplomats; in some cases, militia. Ill-advised action on our part could tip the balance of power in ways injurious to the Queen's interests." 

"But Sherlock took down Moriarty's web." 

"Moriarty was Afghanistan: a situation so inherently unstable it had to be contained. In a way, it's ironic: had James Moriarty been content to remain a kingpin in the shadow world, he could have lived to a ripe old age. But then my brother caught his attention. His -- fascination. And he let more and more of his bread and butter operations slide while he engaged in his game with Sherlock. He was losing control. Not quickly, but noticeably. That's why he chose to bring things to a head." Mycroft sighed heavily. "All this with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, of course." He looked up brightly. "Well. A good day's work, little brother. Some suspicions confirmed, and a couple of fruitful lines of investigation to follow."

"I'm not done," Sherlock complained. "There are secondary--" 

"Yes," Mycroft interrupted. "Please put anything you deem worthy of further investigation in a report. Print it out; don't send it electronically. I'll set my agents to work immediately." 

Sherlock blinked at this. "Your agents can't see what I can." 

"Which is why you shall have to be excruciatingly clear about exactly what they need to look for. I may even be constrained to do some of the _legwork_ \--" he said the word as if it tasted bad -- "myself." 

"Why am I not doing the legwork?" 

"Ah." Mycroft held up the envelope he'd brought in. "Because of this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While typing this up, it occurred to me that paper files are kind of primitive. Then I thought, if Mycroft is worried about a mole, he may fear electronic communication is compromised. So that was awfully clever of me after all!
> 
> Don't you get goosebumps every time Mycroft wields a manila file? What's in there? Stay tuned...
> 
> Please feed the cuckoo kudos bird! And leave a comment, those make me Snoopy happy dance.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussion of suicidal ideation and some really bad psychiatric practices in this chapter. If this would trigger you, take a pass.

Sherlock licked his lips, his mouth suddenly gone dry. "Is that -- my pardon?" 

Mycroft pursed his lips. "It's more the process you need to go through in order to obtain the pardon. Remember, I told you at the outset, I cannot simply wave a magic wand and make this go away with no consequences. There are -- conditions." 

"And I'm not going to like them," the younger brother deduced. He paled suddenly. "Not the mission...?" 

"No," Mycroft pronounced firmly. "No mission, no gaol." 

"Well, so far I love it," Sherlock snarked. "What's the catch?" 

The elder Holmes visibly braced himself. "Psychiatric treatment." 

The detective rolled his eyes as he flopped in his chair. "I have to see a psychiatrist?" 

"Psychiatric treatment -- on an inpatient basis." 

Sherlock jumped as if stung. "I've been _sectioned?"_

"No, not exactly." Mycroft pulled several densely typed pages out of the envelope. "You're being remanded to a secure facility for a period of six weeks for treatment of post-traumatic stress and drug addiction." 

"Not an addict," Sherlock muttered reflexively. 

"Well, convince the doctors of that and you're that far ahead of the game. To continue: At the end of the six weeks, the doctors will submit their recommendations as to whether treatment should continue on an inpatient or outpatient basis." 

"So the six weeks are a minimum?" John clarified. "They can actually keep him indefinitely?" 

"It depends on his progress." 

"Progress," Sherlock echoed with a derisive snort. 

"Relax," the elder brother admonished. "It's a state of the art facility; they're not going to sedate you and strap you to the bed." The younger man's only response to that was a death glare. Mycroft sighed and plowed on. "Once you are released, while outpatient treatment continues, conditions are as follows: First, you will not live alone." He shrugged. "No problem, I have plenty of room." 

"Live with you? I'll stay in the hospital." 

"Stay with us," John offered. 

"You don't want me around with a new baby." 

"No, it should be fine." He considered a moment. "As long as you understand that bringing as much as a microgram of a controlled substance into my home is a deal breaker." 

"We have time to finalise those arrangements," Mycroft remarked. "Moving on: You will have a tracking device. We'll insert a microchip; much less cumbersome than the anklet. You will make all appointments for treatment. You will take any prescribed medication and not take any _un_ prescribed -- 'medication.' Compliance with this latter to be enforced by random testing. The doctors will report on your progress monthly, and when you are deemed sufficiently stabilised, you will be as free as the proverbial birdies." He produced a pen. "You need to sign--"

"Wait!" Sherlock shut his eyes and drew a deep, shaky breath. He was clutching his armrests so hard his knuckles were white. "Just -- give me a minute." He took another breath and got himself under control. "So: I must take any prescribed medication. I have no right of refusal? If it turns me into a zombie, grows hair on my palms, whatever; if they hand me a pill I have to take it?" 

"I'm sure they'll do their best to mitigate possible side effects." 

"Side effects," Sherlock scoffed. "What do _you_ know about side effects?" 

"Sherlock..." John started, but his friend stayed him with an upraised hand. 

"What about non-pharmacologic treatment? Any right of refusal there?" 

Mycroft frowned. "I already said you have to show up for therapy." 

"Therapy!" Sherlock dismissed this with an angry chopping gesture. "Suppose some genius doctor decides I need brain surgery; must I consent?" 

The older brother rolled his eyes and sat back. "Now you're being ridiculous."

"Am I? All right, slightly less ridiculous: suppose they decide to taser my neocortex; must I consent?" 

Realisation dawned. "Oh, that." 

"Yes, _that._ I do not consent to _that._ " He paused a moment. "Or surgery, for that matter. Nothing invasive. I want that in writing, Mycroft." 

"Fine, I'll make the emendation. I don't imagine it'll be a problem." 

"No, there's no problem with any of this, is there? Except that you're bloody _putting me away!_ " Sherlock exploded out of his chair and loomed over his brother, ranting right into his face. "You bastard, will you ever stop trying to control me --" 

"This isn't about --" 

"Oh, like hell --" 

_"Enough!"_ John shouted that in his best Captain Watson voice and placed himself physically between the brothers. They quieted, Sherlock simmering and Mycroft unflappable as always. "Sherlock, sit." It was an order and the taller man obeyed without argument. "Mycroft, this is -- unexpected, to say the least. Why did you choose this route?" 

"Because it was the last card I had to play, and it was a good one. Sherlock's refusal of psychological treatment after being tortured in Serbia worked to our advantage, as did his recent relapse and certain aspects of his -- history." 

"Yes," Sherlock sneered. "I'm sure that by the time you were done, I was a pathetic, broken man." 

"By the time I was done," Mycroft replied icily, "Murder One was off the table. Do you get that?" Sherlock had the grace to look abashed. "Hear me, little brother," the older man continued forcefully. "You have to colour between the lines this time. You mustn't play these people. Be honest with the doctors, cooperate fully with the staff and take your meds. Any non-compliance gets you sent to gaol, and there will be no second chance." He rose, dusted himself off and retrieved his umbrella. "Sherlock, the hospital is expecting you on Monday morning. Please use the remaining two days to make your report as complete as possible. Dr. Watson, kindly be sure to cover that wall and secure all materials before Mrs. Watson comes back. It wouldn't do for her to spy with her little eye things she should not." With that, he took his leave. 

"Can you believe that insufferable git?" Sherlock muttered. In a high, mocking voice: 'Good news, Sherlock, I found a way to keep you out of gaol.' By locking me in the bloody _loony bin_ instead!" He growled and leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers wound through his curls. 

"Six weeks in hospital has got to be better than life in prison," John offered. 

Sherlock's head snapped up so he could glare at him. "Arguably," he bit out. "But--" He cut himself off and studied John's face, his mouth forming an 'O' of realisation. "You -- you're all for this. You--" He choked off, then blurted, "Do you think I'm sick?" 

John unconsciously shifted his stance to Parade Rest as he chose his words carefully. "I think there might be some benef--" 

"No!" Sherlock interrupted. "You don't go all 'doctor' on me and give me a non-answer. That was a yes or no. Do you think I'm sick?" 

The doctor hesitated only a moment. As gently as he could, he answered, "Yes."

Sherlock made a small, wounded sound in the back of his throat and dropped his head, studying the fingers entwined in his lap. After a moment, he asked thickly, "And you think this state of the art facility can make me normal?" 

"God forbid!" John exclaimed. He knelt by the chair to be at eye level. "You're unique in so many wonderful ways, Sherlock. I would never want you to be 'normal.' " He squeezed the other man's wrist, asking him to look up. "But I want you to be well. You wouldn't be self-medicating unless something hurt." 

The younger man gave a short bark of laughter. " _Life_ hurts. The cure for life is death, obviously. But if I state the obvious, I get put in a room with soft walls." 

"Not your first attempt then, that's what Mycroft meant by 'history?' " 

"Third," Sherlock pronounced solemnly. "Fourth, by Mycroft's count. I keep telling him my second overdose was an accident, but he doesn't believe me." 

John mulled over the conversation he had heard. "When did you have ECT?" he asked. 

"I was fourteen." 

"Diagnosed with depression?" Sherlock nodded. "Did it relieve the depression?" 

"At the cost of burning down the mind palace. It took me a year to rebuild, and I never did get all of it back. To this day, some spots are just piles of ash." He drew up his knees and huddled into himself, a miserable Sherlock-ball. "That includes the reason I was there in the first place. They tell me I cut myself; I have no reason to disbelieve it." 

John frowned thoughtfully. "Sedating you and strapping you to a bed; they did that to you too?" 

"That's how they handled me when they weren't testing the conductivity of my grey matter. I grant you I wasn't an easy patient, but I didn't deserve to be turned into a mindless lump." He looked up, eyes glistening. "I couldn't _think_ , John. Do you have any idea how terrifying that was?" 

John held his gaze for a long moment, then stood up and whipped out his mobile. "Mycroft. Bring that document back here. You have more emendations to make."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore John going all Captain Watson. 
> 
> Tell me what you thought and tune in next chapter when John tells Mycroft exactly what is going to happen.
> 
> (shaking tin cup): Kudos and comments, please. Kudos and comments for the poor fanfic writer?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John gets to be all doctorly. He didn't get to do that nearly enough in the show!

"Hmph." John folded the last page of the process-not-pardon back into place. Silence had reigned for the past half hour while he pored over the document, broken only by the several occasions when he'd asked Mycroft to clarify a point of legalese. "Well. Here's the main thing: I want to be on Sherlock's treatment team as patient advocate. I'm not a psychiatrist, so I won't have the authority to make treatment decisions, but they are bloody well going to exhaustively explain and justify to me every treatment decision they do make. And I plan to use unlimited bitching and moaning privileges to ensure your brother has everything he needs." He glanced over to the younger brother. "Sherlock, in order to be effective, I need access to your complete medical history. And I do mean complete: mum's first ultrasound on. Do I have your permission for that?" 

Sherlock went very still. "John. You're the only doctor in the world I trust, but ... I just ..." He broke off and swallowed hard, as if literally swallowing a bitter pill. "Well. Needs must. Yes." 

"I'll arrange it," Mycroft said. "But Dr. Watson, will you have time for this with the blessed event imminent?" 

Mary's due date is eight weeks out," John answered. "If she goes early, or Sherlock stays hospitalised for longer than that, it becomes more difficult, but it should still be very workable. You said it's a state of the art facility; that means paper charts are long gone, replaced by computerised records. Given access, I'll be able to log on and read his treatment notes in real time from wherever I am. I can communicate with the doctors by email or phone. I'll make it work." He held up the document. "Can I write on this?" 

"I'll be printing out an emended version, so yes." 

"Great." He scribbled across the top _John Watson is patient advocate._ "Now, as to the nuts and bolts of this thing: I understand it was designed to appease a raft of politicians and lawyers, but from a medical standpoint this was written by a layman with no understanding of the nuances." Sherlock stifled a giggle and settled happily in his chair. John winced inwardly and braced himself to burst the bubble. "For example: I appreciate the impulse to protect your brother's privacy, but you can't discuss treatment options coherently without mentioning he's neuroatypical." 

Two pairs of Holmes eyes snapped to each other and they blurted simultaneously, "When did you tell him?" 

John grumbled, on the verge of feeling insulted. For such intelligent men, the brothers could be really obtuse sometimes. "Please. I'm a doctor. I live with you. And evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, I'm not completely oblivious." He paused. Sherlock had drawn his legs back up and re-huddled, plainly ill at ease. "You had me second-guessing myself for a long time, though," he continued more softly. "You're very good at eye contact."

"Lessons in Normalcy 101," Sherlock muttered. "When you talk to someone, look them in the eye, but don't stare. That's tricky, very tricky. I was ten before I worked out an algorithm for it." As if to prove himself, he looked John straight in the eye and asked, "What finally decided you?" 

"The night we got back from Baskerville," the doctor explained. "Your bedroom door wasn't completely shut, and I could see you -- rocking." 

Mycroft's eyebrows flew up, but Sherlock pounced before he could open his mouth. "I seldom indulge," he bit out, "but my mind had just been ripped apart by a potent hallucinogen, so I think I may be excused." The older brother raised his hands in mock surrender and kept his silence. 

"So, back to this," John redirected their attention. "It needs to be noted that Sherlock may not respond to things the way typical people do. What seem to be common-sense measures simply may not apply to him. For example: I know from experience he finds hospital environments extremely stressful. The way this is written, he's locked into that environment for every one of those 42 days, whether it's beneficial for him or not." He glanced at Sherlock, who was looking positively gleeful. "Don't cheer too soon," he warned him. "I'm not trying to write you a 'Get Out of Gaol Free' card. I totally agree we have to start with observation in a hospital setting if only to get a baseline. After that, if the _medical consensus_ is that the hospital environment is detrimental, other options can be explored. That may mean going straight to outpatient treatment, or it may mean transferring to a different type of facility, maybe rehab or a halfway house. The main thing is to keep our options open."

"The problem is," Mycroft stated, "that when I said the facility was secure, I meant from an Intelligence standpoint. The doctors and staff all have the highest possible clearance, which is necessary when you consider many of Sherlock's experiences the past few years involve classified missions." 

"Security is your problem," John shot back. "Your brother's medical needs are mine. If he needs to go somewhere different, then you do whatever you must to ensure England's safety." John took a moment to note all this on the document, then continued. "Second point -- I'm shocked you didn't see it, Mycroft; Sherlock sure did. You specify treatment for 'drug addiction.' That's a very specific syndrome, and technically, one that may not apply, which leaves him a loophole to wiggle through. The phrase you want is 'substance abuse.' " He made the change and plowed on. "Medication. I actually think meds can be very helpful in the right circumstances, but Sherlock said some things that lead me to believe he was overmedicated or inappropriately medicated in the past. True?" 

"True." 

"Right. Mycroft, you may be trying to snow Sherlock with this legal mumbo-jumbo, but I know the system. If he hasn't been sectioned, he absolutely has the right to refuse medication. Are you willing to waive that right, Sherlock?" 

"Certainly not," the detective growled emphatically. 

"Thought not," the doctor replied. He struck out "must take" and nibbled the end of his pen, considering. "So: All medication decisions to be thoroughly discussed with both the patient and his advocate." 

"I don't want anything that affects the way I think," Sherlock insisted. Mycroft rolled his eyes and snorted, but this time, it was John who pounced before he could open his mouth.

"Not helpful," he admonished. "How about this: If, after the appropriate period of acclimatisation, a medication results in any decline in cognitive faculties, that drug will be discontinued." 

"Good," Sherlock agreed. 

"Ludicrous," Mycroft opined. "Are you really going to tie the doctors' hands like that?" 

"Requiring them to answer their patient's concerns isn't ludicrous, it's necessary. Sherlock needs to be able to think in order to _be_ Sherlock." He made more scribbles on the document, which was beginning to look very well-used. "I do agree, though, once a med is prescribed, he mustn't take himself off it." John forestalled Sherlock's objection with, "It's entirely your decision to discontinue, but it has to be done under medical supervision. Some drugs have serious consequences if stopped suddenly." He flicked through the rest of it. "Random testing obviously has to stay in; showing up for appointments, that's a no-brainer. Sherlock, you have anything you want to add?" 

"That I really don't want to do this?" 

"Little brother," Mycroft began, and paused, a bemused expression on his face. "Well. There you have it. Sheer, unadulterated sentiment. You're my little brother, and I will always do everything I can for you. This is what I can do." 

Sherlock looked at John to appeal to him, then closed his mouth with a snap his expression clouding over. "Right. You're on his side."

"I am," John agreed, "because we're both on your side. You do see that?" No answer. The doctor recognised the symptoms of a major sulk coming on and tried to abort it. "Your brother's your legal advocate. He's managed to keep you out of gaol for a very serious offence. I'm your medical advocate. There will be no ECT, no unnecessary restraints, and I'm gong to watch every drop of medication like a hawk. Do your part by cooperating, and this could end up being beneficial for you." Silence compounded by death glare. 

Mycroft was less patient. He tossed the laptop to Sherlock. "Mrs. Watson should be back momentarily," he reminded them. "Sherlock, stop acting like a stroppy child and encrypt all relevant files. Use a double encryption and base it on your childhood pirate language. That should prove sufficiently bewildering." 

"You think she's that good because she hacked into the archives?" Sherlock scoffed. "A twelve-year-old could do that." But he went to work with a will. While he tapped keys, Mycroft and John jury-rigged a cover for the wall, then placed all papers under lock and key in Sherlock's room. 

"I feel a little conflicted," John mused. "Mary is my wife." 

"And she is a rogue assassin; a mercenary. Of course her loyalties are suspect. The only reason she's still at liberty is because she's been meticulous about leaving no paper trail. We know a great deal, but can prove nothing." 

Having no answer for that, John defaulted to the answer for everything. "Tea," he announced as he marched into the kitchen. 

Ten minutes later, Mary breezed in to the sight of three innocent spies, happily sipping Darjeeling and munching chocolate biscuits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, you're in my wheelhouse now, Mr. British Government!
> 
> Lioness, Lioness, how does your garden grow?  
> With kudos and comments, kudos and comments,  
> Standing prettily all in a row!
> 
> Ok, Ok, I'm writing fanfic, not poetry!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a long chapter, I'm afraid. You get a lot of Sherlock's backstory here.
> 
> Enjoy!

"Just in time for tea, I see," Mary piped as she entered in a flurry of bright gold hair and bright pink smile. John couldn't help but smile back, reminded of why he fell in love with her. Her next words, however, reminded him that the pert, cheery nurse was only the candy coating. 

"Bug buster?" she exclaimed, in the tone of a computer geek who had just seen an original MacIntosh. She scooped up one of the gizmos and examined it with a professional air. "Mycroft, these are ancient." 

"They're also surplus," the elder Holmes replied. "I didn't have to requisition them..." 

"Which might alert a mole that you're on to him. Right." 

Mycroft rose. "Mrs. Watson, pray take my seat; I must be off. Sherlock, I expect your report soonest. Dr. Watson." With a formal nod and a tap of his umbrella, he was gone. 

Mary frowned as she sat. "Don't think he likes me much. We should invite him for dinner someday." 

Sherlock snorted. "If you think you can cook that much." 

"Oh, Sherlock," she admonished as she stirred sugar into her tea. "He's not really fat, you know." She took a sip and favoured them with what Sherlock mentally catalogued as Bright Disarming Smile #3. "So, what did you boys do today?" 

"The usual," Sherlock replied with an airy wave of his spoon. "Sifted through data; delineated avenues for further investigation; my brother had me sectioned..." 

_"What?"_

"He really didn't, you know," John argued. 

"I'm being packed off to a psychiatric facility not of my own volition. There may be some legal point of difference, but from a practical standpoint I can't see it." He tossed his spoon on the table with a clatter. Addressing Mary: "Your husband, by the way, thinks this is a grand idea."

"John!" 

"It's complicated," John protested. 

"No, it's simple," the detective snapped. "Sherlock is crazy; lock him away." He stalked to the sofa and flung himself down, back to the room. The Sulk had well and truly begun. 

"Sherlock," Mary crooned and went to sit by him. John brightened. Mary was something of a genius at coaxing Sherlock from his moods. 

Not this time. "Don't touch me," the reclining man barked, curling up tighter on himself. God, this was so hard. He'd been hanging on, but in the wake of the overdose, memories and feelings had got shaken loose in the mind palace, and it was too much. For John's sake, he'd forgiven Mary, even convinced himself he felt affection for her. But now he couldn't look at her without seeing the black-clad assassin and hearing Moriarty's voice: _"That wife!"_ And Mary, clever Mary, she'd be able to read that in his eyes, and the consequences of that ... "Leave," he commanded. 

"Don't think that's the best idea," John ventured. "I thought we'd stay through dinner. I was going to make the thing with the peas..." 

"No. Leave." John coughed softly and Mary shifted on the sofa next to him. Illogical though it be, he could _feel_ the look that passed between them. "Christ!" he swore. He stuck his foot out and pulled up his trouser leg, exposing the anklet. "Look," he spat. "I'm hardly going to run off and score, am I? I have no stash left here, because I never expected to return. In the morning, I'll gladly pee in a cup if you want, but leave me in peace tonight." 

John hesitated. "Promise you'll eat dinner?" 

Breakfast, lunch, tea, and now they expected him to stuff more food in his face? But if he said that, they'd never leave. "I'll make some toast," he muttered.

"That's not a meal," John insisted. 

"I'll put some beans on it." 

"Add a piece of fruit," the doctor ordered. There was a flurry of rustling as he and Mary donned coats and scarves. The door opened and snicked shut, and blessed quiet descended. 

Too quiet, of course. He heaved himself off the couch and padded to the kitchen. Promises to keep after all. He made the toast, spooned some beans on top, and promptly binned the lot. "Said I'd make it; never said I'd eat it." It was a petty victory, but he would take what he could get. He was on his way out of the kitchen when he remembered the fruit. He grabbed an apple from the crisper, took a bite and tossed the remainder in the bin, where it landed with a wet splat among the beans. 

"Well, that killed any remaining appetite," he thought as he settled himself on the sofa and adopted his thinking pose. Things were far too unsettled in his mind palace; he absolutely had to restore order. He willed himself to the mind palace representation of the flat. Several anachronisms immediately became apparent: there was a pipe on the table by his chair, and a copy of The Strand by John's chair. The overhead light was electric, but the lamps had been replaced by gaslights. Out the window, the view was even more chaotic: modern black taxis honked and swerved around horse-drawn carriages. Sherlock closed his eyes and moaned. This was going to take a lot of work. 

  


John took his time brushing his teeth, being in no real hurry to join his wife in their bed. After leaving Sherlock, they'd decided to dine at Angelo's. The pleasant, date night atmosphere attained a distinct chill when John explained he was going to act as Sherlock's patient advocate. And the temperature plummeted to subarctic when he let slip that he had volunteered, as opposed to being asked to do so.

Finally, he could stand no more. "Well, that's just fine," he snarled as he slapped his napkin on the table, abandoning his tiramisu. "The man was willing to throw away his life for you, and you're really going to complain about this?" 

"I wouldn't under other circumstances," she protested, "but we're starting a family. I think that deserves your time and attention right now." 

The need to control his temper made John's words come out as a voiceless whisper. "Be very careful," he choked. "You do not want me to think too hard about who deserves what." 

"What does our baby deserve?" Mary shot back. "My list begins with a fully engaged father." 

Low blow in exchange for low blow, he mused as he unspooled a length of dental floss. If it were two guys, they would call it even, mumble apologies to each other, and go for a pint, but women required groveling. He started on his lower back molar. Each tooth was going to need plenty of loving attention, he decided, before he could go back out there and do the hearts and flowers routine. 

Finally out of both teeth and excuses, he exited the bathroom. Mary was still awake (oh, well), and the look she shot him through her lashes was decidedly frosty. For just a microsecond, the mask slipped, and he could _see_ the stone cold killer he was sharing a bed with. It chilled him to the bone. For the sake of having something else to look at, he retrieved his tablet before sliding into bed. 

_Am I really afraid of my wife?_ he pondered. Sherlock said he'd married her because he saw, albeit unconsciously, that she was dangerous. It was true he'd always been one to run towards the fire rather than away. Sprinting towards enemy lines, or hot on the heels of a knife-wielding killer, _the blood pumping through your veins --_ that was meat and drink to him. Having to gingerly handle a bomb primed and ready to go off 24/7 -- not nearly as much fun.

Right. Steady hands, then, and as with any predator, don't show fear. "Mary. Please believe me when I tell you our daughter will always come first. But Sherlock needs me to do this--" 

"He has a brother." 

"Who has no medical training and doesn't know the right questions to ask. I do." He summoned every bit of warmth he could muster and looked her straight in the eye. "I promise, you and the baby always come first. I will be there for every appointment, I will be there to welcome our daughter into the world; I will be there as we forge ourselves into a family. It's just the next couple of weeks are going to be intense, until things get settled. After that, it'll just be a couple of visits a week --" _Holy hell, had she really rolled her eyes?_ "You owe him, Mary. This is not too much to ask." 

Mary's mouth twisted into a petulant moue, but then her expression softened. "You're right. I'm just..." she gestured to her belly, "pregnant. The baby's consuming 110% of my brain space." 

"Yeah, I get that." He pecked her on the lips and settled in to read his email. Mycroft had sent him a large file, which turned out to be Sherlock's medical history, interspersed with Mycroft's own notes for context. Printed out, it would make a large file indeed. Mycroft had taken him literally: it really did start with Mum's first ultrasound. It had been an easy pregnancy and uncomplicated delivery, resulting in the birth of a full-term, perfectly healthy baby boy.

A perfectly healthy baby who screamed endlessly, nursed only fitfully, slept hardly at all, and horrifyingly, clawed at his own eyes, forcing his mother to swaddle his hands with soft cotton mitts. He wailed and shook at every loud noise, and stiff-armed away loving touches. A doctor himself, John could feel the frustration of the doctor who examined five-month-old Sherlock: "Mother insists baby is in pain; all tests normal." _All tests_ was rather a comprehensive stack; they were leaving no stone unturned. 

Moving on: gross motor skills were unimpaired. He walked on time and toilet trained easily _(fastidious git even then)_. Toddler Sherlock divided his time between sessions of screaming and sessions of rocking. Both these things diminished a bit as he grew, but they persisted through his third year. 

Then -- the miracle. A week shy of his fourth birthday, the child who had never said so much as "mama" remarked conversationally, "I builded a house. Mycroft showed me." The doctors were mystified by Sherlock's assertion he had a house in his head, but John understood immediately. _The house that became a palace._ Right then, John forgave Mycroft for every high-handed stunt he had ever pulled. By introducing Sherlock to the mind palace technique, he'd enabled the child to impose order on chaos. 

Progress was rapid after that. Sherlock's parents must have been beside themselves to learn that instead of a severely retarded child, they had a genius. He could already read on a second grade level, and his facility with maths was astounding. That summer, Sherlock's parents bought him a puppy, which proved tremendously beneficial. Although still far from normal, the child was now romping and playing.

Things proceeded on an even keel for a while then. Socialisation was the project of the hour, so six-year-old Sherlock went to school. After a rocky period of adjustment, he hit upon the strategy used by nerds the world over: keep your head down and ignore the bullies as much as possible. Make friends he didn't, but at least he learned to navigate among his peers, with varying degrees of success. 

Age 9: Tragedy. The terse entry in the doctor's notes: "Child traumatised by death of pet dog." The symptoms sounded very familiar to John: refusing to speak, eat, or get out of bed for any but his most basic needs. _A full-blown depressive episode at age 9. Damn._ It resolved spontaneously after a couple of weeks, but it was by no means the last such episode. As time went on, they increased in both frequency and intensity. Mood stabilisers were prescribed, but he reacted badly to them. Then, at fourteen, the incident that landed him in hospital. The cut Sherlock didn't remember had been a single slice down his middle, from collarbone to groin, like he was trying to dissect himself. His explanation had been that he needed to "relieve the pressure." 

The hospital notes made John livid. Apparently deciding Sherlock's history with antidepressants absolved them of the need to find meds that would work, they opted to go straight to ECT. John wasn't keen on ECT in the best circumstances, although he understood it could be useful in cases of intractable depression. It seemed counterintuitive to him, like trying to fix a computer by poking it with a stick.

John could feel his rage simmering as he read between the lines on the report. What the doctors congratulated themselves on as "improvement" was simply the boy growing more pliant as his defences were systematically destroyed. _They burned down the mind palace._ John could only imagine young Sherlock's terror. 

"What's got you so riled?" Mary's voice in his ear; he'd quite forgotten her existence, he'd been so engrossed. 

"Sherlock's medical history," John replied. "I'm only up to age fourteen, and already the guy's been through hell." 

"Oh?" Mary shifted as if to read over his shoulder. John drew back. 

"Mary. I know I don't have to explain to you about confidentiality." 

For a second, he thought she might press the matter, then she settled back, looking sheepish. "Sorry. Curiosity got the better of me." 

"Hmm," John replied noncommittally, and continued reading. Sherlock had been released after two months, no longer depressed, but no longer himself, either. "Disengaged" and "preoccupied" were the words used most often to describe him. Over the next year, he rebounded, regaining his spirit and making up for lost time academically. He finished his requirements early, and begged his parents to let him start Uni at age 17. This they allowed, provided he lived with Mycroft. 

Things seemed to finally be going smoothly, but of course, that couldn't last. As soon as he turned 18, Sherlock transferred to the dorms, which made John frown. It seemed a very un-Sherlockian environment. Shortly, the notes turned dark. Reports of violent mood swings; one disciplinary action after the other. Sherlock fighting other students, getting caught up in days-long bacchanals, sneaking into the chemistry lab after hours to blow things up. _Well, that last is just Sherlock being Sherlock._

Finally, substance abuse was confirmed. Age 19 saw Sherlock in rehab. John whistled under his breath at the name of the facility: very expensive, very prestigious, and completely ineffective. On a hunch, John reread the rehab notes. Every one of Sherlock's responses had been textbook. This, then, was where Mycroft's admonition to not "play" the doctors had come from. Clearly, Sherlock had deduced the staff's expectations and fed them back. The ensuing merry-go-round of rehab/relapse was all too familiar to John, having been through it with Harry. 

Christmas break two years later, and Sherlock didn't come home. Mycroft found him on a filthy mattress in a crack den, a horrifyingly long list next to him, ending with the word "Sorry." The hospital records were dreadful to read. It had been a near thing. 

Back in the psyche ward then, but this doctor was heavily into CBT. He spent his time with Sherlock helping him recognise his triggers and teaching him coping mechanisms. John found himself nodding along; it seemed the type of logical approach Sherlock might take to.

Indeed, he improved markedly. Once released, he finished up his degree in record time, and with impressive grades. Unfortunately, by then, his record was so patchy and his reputation so tarnished, he had no way to take that degree to the next level. No graduate programme would accept him. 

Credit where due, he did try hard. He lived with Mycroft for an entire year while he shopped his transcript around, submitted proposals; did everything he could to get a foot in the door. At the end of all that time and effort, the only offer that materialised was a job as a laboratory assistant. 

He gave up. 

He didn't so much move out of Mycroft's as he drifted away, spending longer and longer at a stretch elsewhere. Mycroft's note read, "Stayed high most of the time; I believe the term is 'strung out.' " He finally came home one night to find his family waiting for him, intervention style. His response was predictable: he listened for less than five minutes before he gave them the forks and stalked out. His family stuck by the conditions they had outlined, cutting off his funds and all association with him. 

23 year old Sherlock was on the street. 

The records got patchy after that. Over then next three years, he was treated for pneumonia twice, got stitches for a stab wound (!) and overdosed several times. 

Then Sherlock got his second miracle, in the form of Gregory Lestrade. He and Sherlock appeared on Mycroft's doorstep one evening, and Lestrade explained they had a deal where Sherlock could consult on cases as long as he stayed clean, and indeed had tested clean for the past six months. 

Mycroft was cautious. He gave Sherlock no access to cash, but provided him with a flat on Montague St. He set up accounts at the local grocery and clothes store and supplied the necessities so Sherlock could launch his career as a private detective. 

And Sherlock stayed clean. One year, two, five. He consulted with Lestrade and Dimmock, plowed through their cold cases when he got bored, and charmed the pretty new pathologist into allocating him laboratory space at Bart's. In short, he became the Sherlock Holmes Mike Stamford introduced John to that fateful day. 

The rest of the record was familiar to John, except... he scrolled to the account of Sherlock's injuries upon retrieval from Serbia. He'd been treated terribly, and John knew there were doubtless other torture methods used, such as stress positions and waterboarding, that don't leave scars. _He refused treatment._ Given how little reason Sherlock had to trust psychiatrists, John kind of understood that, but still... 

Well. Post-traumatic stress could certainly explain Sherlock's erratic behavior since his return. And going untreated for over a year -- mitigating circumstances, indeed. John flicked off the tablet, pummeled his pillows into shape, and laid down. Monday would see Sherlock's third hospitalisation and John was more determined than ever that his friend would get every consideration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope that wasn't too much prattling about Sherlock's early life. I just find it fascinating, and hopefully you did, too.
> 
> Random thoughts in the order they appear in the chapter:
> 
> John must have been very, very angry to abandon his tiramisu. If it were me, Armageddon could break out and I'd be like, "Yeah, just gonna finish this."
> 
> The scene where Mycroft teaches young Sherlock the mind palace technique is a piece of my head canon. It's described in more detail in my short fic "Cake and Cognac". 
> 
> Include me with Dr. Watson in finding ECT wildly counterintuitive. I was a child with a seizure disorder in the '60's, which were the Dark Ages for neurology. They basically implied to my mother that they could expect my life to consist of drooling and watching cartoons, and when I stubbornly turned out to be gifted, since they could not be wrong, they told my mother to expect me to regress. Ever get hit with the question "Are you regressing?" when your grade dropped from an A to a B? Yeah. Way to diagnose, doctors, and way to play it cool, Mom! OK, I'm oversharing, but that's why I can't wrap my brain around the idea that seizures might be beneficial for some people. I know there's clinical data to support it, but ... (whole body shudder).
> 
> CBT, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, is one of the few things psychologists have come up with that makes sense to me. My humble opinion only.
> 
> Torture is one of those serious things that Mofftiss treats all too lightly. Are we really to believe that after that kind of treatment, all he needs is a shave and his Belstaff to feel all better? Fie!
> 
> Let me know what you thought! Always eager to hear feedback!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little lighter interlude before we dive into the angst again.

_He looks dreadful._

Such was John's assessment when he saw Sherlock the next morning. The man was even more pale than usual, with dark smudges under his eyes. "Did you sleep at all?" John asked. 

Sherlock shook his head. "Up all night cleaning," He answered. "Where's Mary?" 

"Lying in this morning, said she might meet friends for lunch." He suddenly realised the first part of Sherlock's answer didn't make sense: certainly the dust was as eloquent as ever. "Cleaning what?" 

"Well," Sherlock yawned as he went to flip the kettle on, "first I set the flat to rights. Then I got rid of the places I don't need: the waterfall, Carmichael Manor, the cemetery ... and I got rid of the horses..." He scrubbed a hand through his hair and sat at the table. "Actually all the _things_ went back to normal fairly easily, but the people are being stubborn. I've banished that damn newspaper vendor three times, but every time I look out the window, he's back. And I can't get Mrs. Hudson out of her clothes." He paused and blinked rapidly a few times while his brain caught up to his mouth. "That didn't come out right. What I mean is, I can't convince her to change her clothes. She just says, 'Oh, but I think this style is so fetching, don't you?' " 

"What style is that?" John asked, utterly lost. 

"Floor-length skirt, lacy white blouse, cameo brooch at the throat." 

"Victorian dress." The light bulb suddenly came on. "Your mind palace. You restructured it as Victorian and now you can't get all the people back to normal." 

"Obviously." 

"It's really not obvious to anyone who's not living in your head, Sherlock," John chided. "So Mrs. Hudson won't rejoin the 21st century, eh?" 

"No. And you: I've got your dress and speech patterns back to normal, but you're still sporting that ridiculous moustache. So is Hooper." 

_"Molly?!"_

"Not Molly, Hooper." Of course, being Sherlock, he said this as if it made perfect sense. "Thank goodness, Lestrade and Mycroft are back to normal."

"And Mary?" 

_The black-clad assassin --_ which was the only image his mind palace would produce when he thought of Mary now. "She's in modern dress," he answered. 

"I can't picture Mary as a Victorian lady," John mused. "She just doesn't fit." 

"No, she didn't." Huh. John was on to something there...but he couldn't drop into the mind palace to pursue it; John was thinking too loudly. "You read my file," he deduced. 

"Yeah." 

"Questions?" 

John pondered a moment. "Didn't see the second suicide attempt." 

Sherlock winced, but answered without hesitating. "The stab wound. I was going to open my femoral artery but I wanted it to look like I'd been in a fight so my family wouldn't blame themselves. I faked defensive wounds to my hands and arms, then decided a stab wound in my side would cement the ruse. But I underestimated how painful stabbing myself would be. I passed out, and someone found me and called 999." 

"Thank God. So what's the plan for today?" 

"Sheer boredom, I'm afraid. I have to work up that report for my brother. You might as well go home, John; there's nothing for you to do." 

"I can amuse myself." The doctor hefted the bag he had brought in with him; it obviously contained his laptop along with other odds and ends. 

_Awww ... poor Freak needs a babysitter._ That thought had Donovan's voice and Sherlock felt his feathers fluffing. He swallowed down his irritation, though: babysitter or no, the prospect of having John for a day without Mary was too good to pass up. "Fine," he muttered, and set to work.

To John's amusement, Sherlock soon employed him to retrieve files or hunt up specific documents. After about half an hour, the detective remarked, "Let's uncover the wall, then." 

_Aaah!_ That sigh, laden with anticipation, was in Mary's voice, and it stopped Sherlock cold. "Wait a minute." This hesitation was illogical, though. Mary couldn't see the wall. 

Could she? 

"I need absolute quiet for a minute," the detective commanded. He dived into the mind palace. Sure enough, Mary was there in the flat, casually tossing one of the bug busters from hand to hand, a knowing smirk on her face. 

"Such antiquated equipment," she said scornfully. "And the man who encapsulates the power of the entire British Government stymied by a requisition form." She scoffed, tossed the little gadget over her shoulder and stalked off. 

_Of course!_ His eyes popped open, wide with realisation. John saw it and opened his mouth to ask, but Sherlock spoke first. 

"I simply must concentrate," he babbled. "I need to find them..." he strode to the mantel and started scouting amidst the junk. "I tucked them away, you know..." 

"What are you looking for?" John asked. 

"Cigarettes," Sherlock answered. He shifted his attention to the table by the window, casually picking up the bug buster and moving it as he sifted through the detritus. 

"Sherlock," John reproved. 

"No, no, that's not ... oh! I remember!" He strode to the coffee table and excavated the cigarettes from under a teetering pile of magazines. He held the pack out to John. "Bin these, would you? They keep...talking to me."

John's face cleared. "With pleasure," he replied. He went in the kitchen and for a minute, the flat was full of the sound of the little cylinders being shredded. He emerged from the kitchen to see Sherlock standing where he'd left him, gnawing the edge of his thumb. 

"I have a confession," the detective blurted. "I kept my word -- I made the beans and toast -- but I didn't eat them. I really haven't eaten since tea." He rocked on the balls of his feet and looked John full in the face. "I'm practising being compliant." 

"And doing well," the doctor approved. "Let's get some food in you, then." He turned back towards the kitchen, but Sherlock stopped him. 

"Ugh, John, you're about to make porridge..." 

"Porridge is good for you..." 

"Speedy's makes that breakfast painini you like." 

That did make John wonder, but Sherlock volunteering to eat was not an opportunity he was going to waste. "OK." The detective nodded and whirled towards the door but John called him back. 

"Might want to change clothes," he suggested mildly. 

Sherlock took in his morning ensemble of pyjama bottoms, t-shirt, and ratty dressing gown with a rueful snort. "Right." He stalked off to his room, tossing, "Don't touch anything," over his shoulder. 

A few minutes later, the friends were settled at a table in Speedy's, and Sherlock ordered porridge before whipping out his mobile. 

**Not a bug buster but a fly catcher -- SH**

**Took you long enough -- MH**

**I won't lie to John. That never ends well. -- SH**

**Tread carefully, little brother. -- MH**

"Gotta be Mycroft if you're making that face," John ventured. 

Sherlock laid his mobile down. "The flat is compromised," He said bluntly. 

"What? But your brother put that equipment..." 

"Antiquated equipment," Sherlock rejoined. "Deliberately so." 

"Mycroft compromised the flat?" 

"No! Well, yes, but..." He scrubbed a hand through his curls, looking as miserable as John had ever seen him. "John, I'm sorry. I believed something I wanted to, rather than what I had evidence for, and it's going to..." He swallowed and whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," like a chant. 

"Sherlock, stop," John said firmly. "Take a deep breath and then tell me what the hell we're talking about." 

"Coincidence," Sherlock said darkly. "Coincidence so epic the universe would have to slide right past lazy into comatose in order to accommodate it." 

"Yeah, that doesn't make it any clearer." 

Sherlock drew another breath, visibly steeling himself for what he had to say. "Before I jumped off Bart's, Mycroft told you we were being surrounded by assassins. Then, after a decent interval, you meet and marry a woman who turns out to be..." 

"An assassin," John nodded. "That's hardly news. I always kind of figured Moriarty was her last employer." 

"But that's where sentiment blinded us, John. We always assumed that if she were part of Moriarty's game, it was as a pawn, not a player." 

"What are you saying?" 

"Yesterday, at tea. She picked up one of the bug busters, remember? Then, this morning, while I was looking for cigarettes, I picked it up. I could see she had planted a small device on its bottom. A bug buster buster, if you will."

"Mary's surveilling the flat? Because she wants to know what we figure out about the transmission. Because _she_ engineered the transmission." John's face cleared. "But that's good news, Sherlock. She did it to save you." 

"No." His smile was infinitely sad. "If the transmission stood on its own, that would be believable. But routed to point to Moran? A rogue assassin who simply cashed a paychecque from Moriarty would have to no reason to know he even exists. Whatever Moriarty was up to, she was in it up to her chin. Another point: when did you find out about my exile?" 

"The night before." 

"The best agent in the world couldn't have set that up overnight. She had to know almost as soon as Mycroft did. Which means Mycroft is right to suspect a mole. Someone Mary is working with has infiltrated MI6 at the very highest level." 

"Jesus." John scrubbed his hands over his face. "I can't take it in. My wife might be guilty of treason." 

Sherlock shrugged. "Probably just espionage. I doubt she's actually a British subject." He paused and blinked. "That sounded more comforting in my head." 

"Yeah. Sherlock, when it comes to comforting people, just...don't." 

"And yet, I have to repeat how sorry I am. I really wanted to believe she had left that life in favor of having a family with you. I wanted to believe it so badly, I convinced myself of things that in retrospect, don't make sense." 

John's expression was bleak. "Like how a bullet wound that made you flatline could be considered surgery."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock reiterated closing his eyes in agony. "There's no way to just let her go. This is going to destroy your life." 

"What life!" Rage choked John's voice down to a whisper. "A house of cards; lies stacked on top of lies. Oh, that bitch." He pulled a deep breath through his nose. "She's been playing us all along. She whipped off one mask just to reveal another mask." 

"You must control your temper," the detective cautioned. "We have a unique hostage situation on our hands." 

"Christ, the baby." The look he gave Sherlock was utterly lost. "You mean I have to act the loving husband for eight more weeks? I don't know if I can do it for eight more minutes." He grew thoughtful. "I don't know if I ever could. Billy Wiggins had me pegged. I keep my shirts ready to pack." He sat up straight, squaring his shoulders. _Into battle._ "What's the plan?" 

"We feed Mary the most effective lie there is: the truth, selectively told. And we have to nail it down quickly. If we take too much longer here, she's going to get suspicious." 

Ten minutes later, the two friends re-entered the flat. Sherlock cast about for a bit, and finally settled on addressing the wall above the fireplace. "I don't know exactly where the camera is," he said, "but if it were me, I would certainly put one in this vicinity. I'm about to put the kettle on to boil. Why don't you join us, Mary?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angular momentum makes the world go round, but kudos and comments make fanfic writers twirl gleefully like our favourite character: "Oh, it's Christmas!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you love Mary, my music suggestion for this chapter is "Sympathy for the Devil." Because she doesn't get any.

As soon as Mary stepped in the door, Sherlock swooped over and enveloped her in a gentle but heartfelt hug. "Thank you," he whispered, then held her out at arm's length to look her full in the face. "But that was a crazy risk for you to take." 

"Not nearly as crazy as the risk you took for us," she answered. 

"Yeah," John sniped from his chair, where he was sitting with arms folded. "Because the answer to crazy is more crazy." 

"John...?" The look she gave him was so soft and warm, it killed him to realise how false it was. _I don't know how much of this I can take._ Sherlock had instructed him to be absolutely honest about his feelings ("She will detect any false notes," he'd said.) So he decided to lead with that. 

"I don't know how much of this I can take. I mean, I can't argue with the results: Sherlock is home, he's safe, and he's going to get the help he needs -- don't roll your eyes, Sherlock -- but. At Christmas, we decided your past was yours, but your future is ours. We burned A.G.R.A. And now, just one week later, she's back. The agent, the assassin -- the woman you swore you were no longer. Did you mean any of it? That's the question I'm left with." 

"I did it for Sherlock," Mary protested. 

"Oh, your motives were good," John agreed. 

"Thank you," Sherlock snarked. The Watsons ignored him. 

"But you went behind my back. You left _me_ out. 

"To provide deniability. I couldn't risk you..." 

"Will everyone in my life please stop protecting me!" John howled. He stomped to the door, grabbing his coat. "I need some air." 

Mary waited until the reverberations from the door slam died away before turning to Sherlock, her gaze cool and professional. "So. What gave me away?" 

For an answer, Sherlock crossed to the bug buster and flipped it up, pointing to the tiny disk on its bottom.

"Oh, I thought so," she breathed, "but I could hardly believe it. That's black on black, almost impossible to see. And you had such a quick little glimpse of it." 

Sherlock tapped his temple. "Eidetic memory. I can take a snapshot and peruse it at my leisure." He cocked his head, matching Mary's coolly appraising gaze with his own. "Routing the transmission through Serbia was a stroke of genius; how'd you come up with that?" 

She twitched one shoulder in a dismissive half-shrug. "Snips of things I'd heard out of the corner of my ear. I knew Serbia was your last stop in taking down Moriarty's web; I knew something had gone wrong. It seemed logical to me that if the Moriarty organisation were resurrecting, that's where the threat would come from." 

"Genius," Sherlock repeated, genuine admiration in his voice. 

The corner of Mary's mouth flicked upward. The smile never materialised, however. She stood stock still, paling at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. 

Footsteps accompanied by the tap of an umbrella. 

For a moment, the petite woman had the aspect of a trapped animal. Her eyes darted around the flat, seeking an escape route. 

"Mary, it's all right," Sherlock called. He looked intently into her eyes, willing her to see sincerity. "Trust me." 

The door opened and Mycroft inclined his head to Mary, indicating with a courtly gesture that she should precede him out. "Mrs. Watson, if you please." 

She lifted her chin. "Interrogation, is it?" 

"Let's call it debriefing," Mycroft purred. "At present, I have no evidence you are suborning Her Majesty's interests, and a great deal of evidence --" nodding towards Sherlock -- "that disposes me kindly towards you. Nonetheless, we must -- _talk_ \-- wouldn't you say?" 

"I suppose we should. Sherlock, when John gets back..." 

"I'll catch him up, don't worry. It'll be fine, Mary." 

She gave him a tight-lipped smile and swept past Mycroft, exuding hurt dignity. 

Sherlock waited until Mycroft's black car pulled away from the kerb, then left the flat. He walked a couple of blocks to a diner where John was waiting for him, nursing a cup of tea and a rather sad-looking scone. 

"Mycroft has her in custody?" Sherlock nodded. "I don't suppose he could be persuaded to keep her until the baby's born, and then throw her down a hole?" 

"I'm afraid the situation requires more finesse than that," Sherlock said. "She's our link to the mole in MI6." 

"Right, the mole." John wearily shoved his tea away. "What's her game? Why the transmission? Like you said, she tipped her hand doing that. _Was_ it to save you?" 

"It was definitely designed to keep me in England. Saving me? That's a different issue." He pondered a moment. "Through her association with you, she has access to me, and thence to Mycroft. The same chain of pressure points as Magnussen, although I doubt blackmail enters into it. Alternatively..." He broke off and frowned into the distance, obviously following a chain of logic he didn't much like. "Double bluff," he pronounced. "She foresaw we would see through the Serbian connexion as a ruse. Which means there really is something brewing in Eastern Europe." His lips quirked in an ironic half-smile. "What a shame I can't go investigate. I've never been happier to be packed off to a mental hospital. I'm not going further east than France for the rest of my life." He said this as if he were joking, but John could see he really wasn't.

"Where do we go from here?" 

Sherlock shrugged expansively. "Me, to hospital. You, home to play the aggrieved husband. Remember to keep all your conversations with her on a personal level. Don't try to trick her or pump her for information; she's far too skilled a professional." 

"Right." John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sleeping with the enemy. God, how is this my life?" 

"Be careful, John," Sherlock warned. "I believe she does love you, in a way. But I also believe she won't hesitate to do whatever she must should she find herself cornered." 

"I believe that, too." He regarded his friend curiously. "So we're just leaving the ball in Mycroft's court? It's not like you to be so passive." 

"I really do have a pardon to earn," Sherlock reminded him. "But I may be able to contribute to the case between sessions of basket weaving." 

John snorted at this and crumbled up the pathetic little scone in his napkin, then they exited the shop. They hadn't made half a block before a black car eased to a stop alongside them, its back door swinging open. 

Sherlock peeked inside and grinned. "Hello, Cerise," he greeted as he slid inside. 

John joined him, smiling at the woman he knew as Anthea. "So your name is Cerise?" he ventured. 

"This week," she replied cheekily. She produced a large manila envelope. "Paperwork for you, Mr. Holmes." 

"Why didn't Mycroft just bring it?" Sherlock wondered as he fiddled with the string. 

"We needed Lady Smallwood's signature, and I wasn't able to catch her up until after Mr. Holmes had left," Cerise/Anthea explained. 

Sherlock slid the papers out. The very top one was a letter in his brother's ridiculously elegant handwriting: 

_Brother mine:_

_The committee remains adamant that treatment may be undertaken only in our MI6 facility; however, I did convince them that six weeks is an entirely arbitrary time frame. The agreement now reads the doctors will submit a report weekly until inpatient treatment is no longer deemed necessary. All else is as discussed._

_Your signature is required on the last page._

_Regards,_

_M.H._

The detective handed the packet to his blogger, who read it over as the car idled in front of 221B. "All in order," he concluded. 

Cerise produced a pen. Sherlock flipped to the back page and spent a long moment staring at the blank line. Then he wrote "W.S.S. Holmes" in a messy scrawl, dropped the pen, and exited the vehicle, literally crawling over John to do so. The doctor scrambled after him, finally catching up in the sitting room, where Sherlock stood, pale and swaying slightly, like he was trying to decide between fainting and being sick. "What did I just do, John?" he asked in a broken voice. 

"You kept yourself out of gaol," John responded firmly. "And you've given yourself the chance to deal with problems that have hurt you for far too long. I know hospitals have been a negative experience for you before, but this time you're not alone." 

Sherlock acknowledged this speech with a jerky nod, divested himself of coat and scarf, and tottered to his room, closing the door firmly after himself. John decided to give him space and repaired to the kitchen. 

There would be tea ready, as soon as Sherlock was ready to face the outside world again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that. 
> 
> Comments and kudos boost my self-esteem. And boosting my self-esteem will boost your self-esteem, since you're being so nice. See? Everybody wins!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To the hospital, ho!

Well. This was different. Almost...nice. 

A number of the patients at the MI6 facility were, in fact, survivors of torture. Since "enhanced interrogation" techniques frequently employed medical or quasi-medical personnel and equipment, pains had been taken to make the place as un-hospital-like as possible. No white coats, scrubs, or uniforms of any kind were in evidence. Staff wore coloured plastic bracelets to differentiate them from patients: yellow for doctors, green for nurses, blue for custodial staff. 

The nurse showing Sherlock around was named Ian, a big-boned, florid-faced young man with ginger hair. To his delight, Sherlock had a private room. "Most everybody does," Ian explained. "If we get full up, we might ask patients to share, or sometimes two folks get on so well, they ask to be roommates, but most of our clients appreciate privacy." The room was painted a medium beige (thank God, any colour but green) with accents like the window frame picked out in chocolate brown. There were a bed, a desk and chair, a comfy armchair, and built-in drawers and shelves for personal items. If he tried hard enough, he could just about pretend not to notice little details like the furniture being bolted to the floor. "Your things will be brought up shortly," Ian assured him. (Translation: your things are being gone through with a fine-tooth comb to ensure there are no drugs or other contraband hidden. Pockets are being sewn shut and belts, ties, laces, or any other items that can be put to nefarious uses confiscated.)

The common room was next on the tour, and again Sherlock was favourably impressed. Along with the expected batch of books, cards, puzzles, and games, there was a row of computer stations. "Internet access is limited," Ian explained. "No porn, nothing violent. We'll have the IT guy fix you up with user name and password tomorrow. Computer use is one of the privileges that can be revoked for non-compliance." 

"My _life_ can be revoked for non-compliance," Sherlock snapped. 

Ian said nothing, no doubt used to responses that seem to come out of left field. He showed Sherlock the dining room. "You have the option to eat in your room, but if so, you have to bring your tray back. We're nurses, not maids, yeah?" The remainder of the tour took little time. They peeked into an occupational therapy room -- and yes, there were materials for basket weaving. "What can I tell you it's traditional," Ian joked. They started back to Sherlock's room. "You have your first session with your psychiatrist at one. I'll collect you then. Until then, you can stay in your room or hang out in the common room. You're allowed on the grounds during daylight hours, although that's not a very popular activity in January." They rounded a corner to see John approaching Sherlock's room. "Ah, your friend," Ian smiled. "I think it's incredible what he's doing for you. Most of our patients don't even get visitors." 

"Most of your patients," Sherlock pointed out, "are security agents, who deliberately avoid attachments." 

"Don't think that makes it any easier, mate," Ian countered. "Dr. Watson," he greeted as they closed the distance. "I'm Ian Doherty, Sherlock's day nurse." 

"Pleasure. He behaving himself?" John teased. 

"No problems," the nurse agreed. "I'll let you get settled in, Sherlock. See you at one."

They entered the room. John asked, "So what do you think?" 

Sherlock hopped onto his bed and sat cross-legged on it while favouring John with a big, dopey grin. "Gosh, John, it's ever so wonderful! I'm so glad I get to be crazy here!" He stopped and checked John's expression: bemused. "That was sarcasm," he clarified. 

"Yeah, I got that," John chuckled. "But seriously, I think this is an excellent facility. I met your psychiatrist, Dr. Holden, and I'm impressed. He's very professional, and he's done research on autism." 

"Oh, good," Sherlock snarked. "An expert in Freakology." 

Every last trace of amusement fled John's face. "Stop," he commanded. "No one calls my friend a freak, not even you." 

That brought Sherlock up short. How _real_ John's friendship was, that he would defend him even from himself. Suddenly, he was ashamed of wallowing in self-pity. His present situation was the consequence of actions he'd freely chosen, and every one of those choices had been for John. Therefore, he could have no regrets. 

"John...ummm...." he stammered. "This...this thing, what you're doing for me, it, umm, it's...good." 

"You're welcome," John said. A nurse arrived with Sherlock's holdall, and the two men busied themselves unpacking and organising. "They said you can hang posters and such if you want to brighten the place up," the doctor remarked. 

"Not planning to be here that long," Sherlock answered. He decided he didn't have enough socks to warrant indexing and tossed them in the same drawer as his pants. "What's Mary doing today?" 

"Said she's shopping, which means probably something else. Took me long enough to catch on that every word out of that woman's mouth is a lie." He sighed heavily and leaned back, letting Sherlock see how weary he was. "This is killing me, you know; pretending I have a marriage. I'm ready to fake a nervous breakdown so I can stay here as your roommate." 

"Having both of us confined might not be the best idea," the detective replied. "Eyes on the prize, John: that little hostage needs her dad to hang in there." 

"You're right." John smiled, taking strength from his best friend's words. "You know, I'm not glad this happened, but I am glad for the distraction. Being your advocate gives me something to focus on other than the travesty my life's become." 

"And what is the state of the advocacy?" 

"Today, I'm just meeting your team. Once your doctor has a couple of sessions under his belt, he'll start putting together a treatment plan. That's when I put in my two cents." 

Sherlock leaned back against his headboard. "Hmm. Do you think they'd let me go if I promise really, really hard I'll never shoot another bad guy?" 

"You mean like pinky swear?" John teased. "I'm afraid it's gone beyond that." 

Sherlock nodded glumly and grabbed the pillow to arrange behind him. His face crumpled in disgust. "John! It's a foam pillow!" 

"Of course it is. Foam is hypoallergenic." 

"I'm not allergic, and I'd be the only one using it. Can't I have my own pillow?" 

"I'll ask. Anything else, Princess?" 

Sherlock shot him a glare and snapped, "A key to the gate." 

"Can't do that one," John chuckled. 

"Well, what is the use of you," Sherlock grumbled, but there was no heat in it. 

"Right, better be off, then. Wouldn't want Her Ladyship to get peeved." Sherlock shot him a look of sheer panic before his mask settled back in place. John leaned forward and squeezed his forearm encouragingly. "You can do this, Sherlock. Just be as brutally honest with the doctors as you are with the clients. Telling the truth will go a long way toward helping the doctor help you."

  


Dr. Holden was not an old man, but his thatch of prematurely snow-white hair and wire-rimmed glasses which framed kindly blue eyes made him look rather avuncular. Determined not to give this "expert" any unnecessary ammunition, Sherlock looked him right in the eye, put on his best polite smile and shook the man's hand before settling into his chair. He deduced immediately he'd overcompensated. 

_Should have left out the smile. I always get those wrong._

"Mr. Holmes," the doctor greeted. 

"Sherlock," Sherlock corrected automatically. Someone saying, "Mr. Holmes" always had him looking around for his brother. Still, he appreciated the gesture. In his experience, mental health professionals greeted you by your first name with a false cheeriness, like you were supposed to be friends. 

"Sherlock, then. First session, so no heavy lifting; just going to go over some things..." 

He kept talking, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He was aware that he was holding himself perfectly still, not even twitching a finger, although even a "normal" person might be forgiven for doing so under these circumstances. The hell with it! There was an elephant in the room, and he was going to have it out right now. _Brutally honest, John? Watch this._

"I hear you're an expert on autism," he interrupted. 

"Yes." 

"So Mycroft tapped you just for me," Sherlock sneered. 

"Of all the doctors on staff, it made me the logical choice," Holden replied.

"On staff," Sherlock mused. "I assumed he'd had you brought in. No matter. Just serving you notice ahead of time: I won't fit." 

"Fit?" 

"Into whatever little slot you have designated for me on your so-called 'spectrum.' I'm not typical, even for the atypical. I won't fit." He finished this speech by folding his arms and sitting back. 

"Of course not, you're an individual." The doctor leaned back in his turn, studying his patient. "Sherlock, autism isn't your problem." 

Huh. He hadn't heard that one before. "It isn't?" 

"It's an important factor in understanding you, but it doesn't define you. And frankly, we have more pressing matters at hand." He tapped the file in front of him. "Shall we?" 

Even more different. Cautiously optimistic, he nodded. 

"All right. Looking over your intake interview: Interesting answer to 'Who's the PM?': 'I don't care.' " 

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't care. It's unnecessary data." 

"You don't think politics affects our daily lives?" 

"Boring." 

"I see. What else is boring?" 

"Popular culture. Celebrity gossip. Religion. Astronomy. Finance. Breathing." 

"Breathing?" 

"In, out, in, out, endlessly. Boring." 

"But very necessary," Holden argued. 

"The two things are hardly mutually exclusive." 

"I suppose that's true," the doctor conceded with a small smile. "What's not boring?"

"Murder. Chemistry. Violin. Bees." 

"Short list. I'm guessing you don't watch much telly." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. " _Insufferably_ boring. Although sometimes it's fun to yell at the screen and point out all the bits they're getting wrong." He thought about it a second. "Of course, that's only fun if I'm watching with John." He lamented the absurdity of Bond films for a bit, then Holden redirected him to another interview question. 

"When asked if you hear voices, you hesitated for a long time, then replied, 'Not exactly.' When asked to explain, you said you hear your thoughts. Can you elaborate on that?" 

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "It's just the way I think. My thoughts...externalise. They take on the voices of people I know." 

"More than one voice, then?" 

"Yes, whichever one is most appropriate to the situation. If I'm deducing something, it might be Mycroft; if I'm dealing with people, it'd probably be John; if I'm working on a knotty chemical analysis, my thoughts might take on the voice of my old professor. That sort of thing." He shrugged defensively. "it's not 'hearing voices' if you know they're your own thoughts." 

"And you always recognise the difference?" Holden pressed. 

"Absol--" But the word dried up in Sherlock's mouth. He remembered referring to a vividly recalled conversation with John, only to have John remind him gently that he hadn't been home that weekend. Then there was Molly's quizzical look and Lestrade's frown as he snarked back to an extremely sarcastic, and very absent, John. And the more he thought about it, the more instances presented themselves: multiple occasions when people had asked him just who he was talking to. Strangers on the Tube eyeing him warily as they edged away. Mrs. Hudson demanding to know who he was arguing with on the phone so late at night. (It had been Mycroft. But he hadn't been on the phone.) 

"I hear sounds sometimes, too," Sherlock volunteered. 

"Oh?" 

"I just heard the sound of a key being thrown down a deep well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's such a treat to write encouraging, supportive John Watson!
> 
> Sherlock, like me, finds foam pillows disgusting and useless. Down all the way, baby!
> 
> I have no expertise in psychiatry and have only had some low-key therapy which I found bloody useless, so I hope that session rang true!
> 
> Leave kudos and comments and your flowers will bloom!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little interlude before throwing the boys back into the casefic.

It astonished Sherlock how quickly the institution became his new normal. He'd expected to be climbing the walls within days, but no such crisis materialised. Upon reflection, he realised a large part of this new-found equanimity stemmed from having a signed contract. Under those terms, the things he feared most were simply Not Allowed. With those apprehensions out of the way, he could focus on the programme. 

And focus he did. With John's standard of brutal honesty to meet, therapy sessions became far more interesting than they had been in the past. Before, 'therapy' meant doctors mouthing meaningless platitudes while he deduced the expected response and spoon-fed it to them. But now: 

He owned up to the intensity of his craving for drugs: a constant deep ache that occasionally spiked into maddening. 

He confessed to the degree of self-loathing he felt that he wasn't able to completely conquer his "autistic" symptoms. "I can't manage a simple smile," he lamented. "And I know I don't have that eye-contact thing down perfectly and I've been working on that for 30 years. I've overheard people say my expression is creepy. And don't you dare ask me how that makes me feel. How would it make anyone feel? Like a freak," he finished glumly. 

He described his mind palace in detail, and that was the hardest of all, because that had always been his own extremely private world. Opening up so much made him quite light-headed and suddenly it seemed that all the air had left the room, because there was nothing left for him to breathe. Dr. Holden coached him through the panic attack until the constriction around his ribs eased. "Please," he panted, not understanding exactly what he was begging for. "Please." 

"Please what, Sherlock?" 

Sudden clarity dawned. "Please don't take it away." 

"How could I?" Holden asked. 

"They did before, with the ECT. They burned it down." 

"But we don't use that here," the doctor assured him. "We don't even have the equipment for it." 

Well, that was good to know. Still... "I need you to understand, though. I know it's not normal. But I need it. Without it, I can't sort the data." 

Holden considered carefully. "I won't lie to you, Sherlock: some of what you've described is concerning. I see similarities to dissociative states, and we're going to be talking about that quite a bit moving forward. But whether you decide to destroy the palace, or restructure it in some way, or make no changes at all -- that's entirely up to you." 

Sherlock cast a long, measuring look his way and saw sincerity. _They won't take it. I'm in control of what happens to it._ That thought quelled the last of the panic, and he was able to continue the session. 

In all, then, Sherlock was feeling quite proud of himself. He was being honest, forthright, compliant -- all the things that had been so impressed upon him. So he felt a bit blindsided when John took the side of the doctors concerning his taking antidepressants. 

"I'm not depressed," he argued. 

"At the moment," John agreed. "But you're prone to depressive episodes, and those aren't going to just go away. If you've got a case on, you can usually power through it, but I can count at least three occasions when even that didn't help. I've seen them lay you out; and I've been laid out by depression; I know how painful it is." 

"The meds don't work for me," Sherlock insisted. 

"They didn't work when you were fourteen," John said, "but we've learned a lot in twenty-five years. Today's meds are more effective with fewer side effects. Not to mention, a young teen's brain is different from a mature man's." 

Good points admittedly, but ... with a sinking feeling, Sherlock realised he didn't really have a logical counter-argument. He had the memory of a bad experience a quarter-century past, and an obstinate conviction that he ought to be able to rein in his hateful emotions without artificial assistance. "Oh, that's rich," intoned Sally Donovan's voice, and in his mind's eye, he could see her holding the box containing his stash. Yes, thank you, Sally. Point taken. 

"My choice to discontinue?" 

"Of course," John confirmed. 

"I don't think it'll work." 

"Drawing a conclusion before the data is in, Mr. Science of Deduction?" 

Oho, an experiment, was it? He suspected he'd just been manipulated, but he recognised John had reframed things that way so he could save face. So he consented to downing a small white pill with breakfast and dinner every day. To his surprise, except for a bit of drowsiness, there were no side effects. Efficacy was harder to gauge, since they were waiting for something to not happen. Upon reflection, Sherlock calculated the longest he'd gone without one of his "black moods" descending had been two months. If he made it to three, they would count the medication a qualified success. 

His fellow patients were another pleasant surprise. He'd been correct in saying to Ian that security personnel tended to avoid attachments. He was in the company of people as guarded as himself. No one tried to jolly him into being social. Many were survivors of torture themselves, so no one batted an eyelash at his scars, or pressed him with awkward questions. 

He was almost ... comfortable? 

Well. As comfortable as he could be while wanting to peel the skin off his left arm so he could scratch its underside. 

As comfortable as he could be while wanting to shoot the walls out of boredom. 

As comfortable as he could be while Dr. Holden pried open his cranium and stirred his brain with a long-handled spoon. 

So no, not exactly comfortable, but nowhere near as bad as he thought it would be. He found himself repeating to himself the advice he'd given John: _Eyes on the prize._ There was so much to gain. 

There was so much to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I got anything medical wrong, please let me know!
> 
> Kudos and comments turn the day into a party!


	11. Chapter 11

"I strongly advise against it." 

Dr. Holden was facing Mycroft Holmes -- an uncomfortable position to be sure, but when it came to the well-being of his patients, the good doctor himself was a force to be reckoned with. 

"Your advice is duly noted," Mycroft replied, "but it doesn't change the necessity." 

"Your brother is in no condition to assist you with any sort of operation." 

"Condition?" Mycroft's brows drew together. "I just spoke with him; I think his condition is excellent. He's calm, responsive, there's no apparent decline in his cognitive or deductive faculties; he's even put on a few pounds this past month. You're to be commended." 

"The condition I speak of is less obvious." Dr. Holden sat back, and the moment stretched. The Awkward Silence, employed by psychiatrists and interrogators alike. Dr. Holden had the upper hand this time, though. Confidentiality reigned supreme in his line of work, and he simply was not going to go into details with his patient's brother, no matter how well-meaning. He would keep to himself his concerns that Sherlock's mind palace visits were in fact dissociative states; that Sherlock himself feared getting lost in his palace sometimes, and indeed sometimes wondered if the entire one-year-plus since his capture in Serbia had been a construct of the mind palace. He could just imagine Mycroft Holmes' reaction if he told him about Sherlock using mental representations of people he knew -- they'd taken to calling them avatars -- and how much autonomy these mental characters had. Most especially Moriarty, who had been ensconced in a padded cell, but had been let loose to help Sherlock with the Ricoletti case and was now missing in action. Telling the elder brother all this would no doubt help him understand Dr. Holden's position, but it would be a deep betrayal of his patient's trust. So the silence continued. 

Finally, Mycroft decided to cut to the chase. "Is he sane?" he asked. 

"Yes," Holden affirmed. "But he's not well. Your brother is fragile, Mr. Holmes. He's been through a horrific amount of stress, which has gone untreated and allowed to spiral to a point where his grasp on reality has become tenuous. He cannot assist you." 

"And yet he must." 

With a mighty effort, Holden reined in his temper. "Surely you have other capable agents!" 

"Yes. But none of them can be Sherlock Holmes. The details are above your pay grade, Doctor, but suffice it to say some of the chatter we've intercepted indicates an interest in him personally. He must be involved." 

"This could be disastrous," Holden insisted.

"I have no choice." 

"And therefore, neither have I; that's the long and short of it, isn't it?" Holden signed a form and handed it over. "With grave misgivings, Mr. Holmes." 

Mycroft took the form and went back to the common room, where Sherlock was snapping together Legos to construct a model of something that looked vaguely Escheresque, with stairwells and hallways branching off at odd angles. "Thought you left," his sibling greeted him. 

"I went to talk to your doctor. I have something for you, baby brother." He produced the paper with a flourish. "Day pass. Or, more precisely, a two day pass. Throw your toothbrush and a change of clothes in a bag and be ready to be picked up tomorrow at 9." 

Sherlock beamed, then frowned. "Is it Mummy's birthday?" 

Mycroft heaved a long-suffering sigh. "I have asked you to stop deleting birthdays, Sherlock; surely they take up a miniscule amount of storage space. But no, not Mummy's birthday." 

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "There's been a break in the ca--" 

Mycroft held up a hand to forestall him. "We'll talk tomorrow." 

He left and Sherlock returned to the model, humming snatches of an air by Vivaldi as he worked. _Finally!_

  


Sherlock was more than ready the next morning. It took all his willpower to walk to the car in a dignified manner, instead of making a mad dash. Mycroft studied his approach, trying to see signs of the fragility Dr. Holden had mentioned. To his eyes, Sherlock looked fantastic. There was a bounce to his step that hadn't been there since before he took his leap off Bart's. His eyes were clear and there was no tremor in his hands (one month clean and counting). He had even filled out some, his features no longer so gaunt and the lines of stress around his eyes nicely smoothed out. Mycroft knew a good bit of this was due to the medical staff ensuring he ate and slept regularly, but surely at least some of it could be counted as actual progress. 

Well, time would tell. Among her many talents, Cerise had a Master's in Psychology. It was her assignment for this mission to stick close to Sherlock and deal with whatever symptoms of instability presented themselves, even administering a potent sedative if necessary. 

Sherlock slid into the car and flashed Cerise one of his rare genuine smiles. "Right, what do we have?" 

"First things first," the elder brother cautioned. "Cerise is to be your partner in this venture: senior partner, in fact. You are to defer to her judgment and under no circumstances are you to go off on your own. Are you clear on that?" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "In other words, not my partner but my handler. I don't need either, Mycroft; John's perfectly capable --" He broke off as he saw his brother shake his head. 

"Dr. Watson cannot be involved. It is likely this operation will culminate in the arrest of Mrs. Watson, and divided loyalties may result in hesitation at a crucial moment." 

"You needn't worry," the detective countered. "John has no loyalty to Mary; he's only with her for the baby's sake at this point." 

"Precisely," Mycroft answered. "One fervently hopes otherwise, but there is the distinct possibility Mrs. Watson will choose not to be arrested." 

Sherlock's eyes widened. "You would use deadly force?"

"Counterproductive, since we want her to talk. But if the situation gets out of hand..." he shrugged. "There's good reason to hope it won't come to that. Mrs. Watson is a survivor; I'm hard put to imagine her choosing to go out in a blaze of glory." 

Sherlock had his doubts about that assessment, but he kept his misgivings to himself as his brother dropped a manila folder into his lap. "Chatter," Mycroft announced. "An air-to-surface conversation between Marcus Monaughy and some unnamed other. Voice distorters being used on both ends, so no help there." 

Sherlock opened the folder and read: 

  


**UO: Marcus, come back?**

_MM: I'm here, sorry for the interruption. The reason for my call: Forest got hold of the new timeline. She's demanding a berth on the Ark._

**UO: There's no harm in humouring her.**

_MM: Yes, but she doesn't trust us. She's gone dark._

**UO: Well, what can she do, really?**

_MM: She does command considerable resources._

**UO: Which are worth exactly nothing in this situation. I'm not willing to waste time on her. How's our favourite family?**

_MM: Awaiting your pleasure. The younger brother is in a secure location and the older will come when called._

**UO: You amaze me, as always. What is this secure location?**

_MM: Not my doing, actually. He's in the MI6 psychiatric facility._

**UO: (laughter) Oh, that's perfect! When did this happen?**

_MM: Last month._

**UO: That recent? I would have thought they'd throw him in the cracker box as soon as he got back, what with the number Moran did to him in Serbia.**

  


Sherlock blinked back a swarm of grey dots that suddenly infringed on his vision. He felt Cerise's hand on his forearm and drew a deep breath before she reminded him to. A couple of breaths later, his vision cleared and he was able to focus again: 

  


_MM: Hang on. I'm getting some readings I don't like. I think our line is compromised._

**UO: Right. I'm landing within the hour. See you soon.**

_\------------------------------------------------------End Transcript-------------------------------------------_

  


Sherlock felt Mycroft's eyes on him. "I'm fine," he assured him, "but maybe you should have left me in hospital." 

"Use you as bait?" Mycroft mused. "Tempting. But we would also be risking the lives and setting back the recoveries of a number of valuable assets. So not our best play." 

"Hmmm." Sherlock tapped his fingers against his thigh, considering. " 'Landing within the hour.' Where?" 

"Here. Our technicians were able to get a solid fix on Mr. Monaughy's end of the conversation. Our invisible man is definitely in London." 

"And very well informed about us." 

"Which implies that Mr. Monaughy is in communication with Mrs. Watson. There are only a handful of people who know of your recent address, after all." 

"And his unnamed superior in the air? I assume you sent agents to Heathrow and..." But again, Mycroft was shaking his head.

"The ambient sounds on the recording make it clear he was in a helicopter." 

"So he could have set down anywhere," Sherlock sighed. "Well, I guess it couldn't be that easy." He flipped back o the start of the transcript, frowning. "So a woman who commands considerable resources has suddenly dropped out of sight. Any suspects there?" 

"Unfortunately not." 

The younger brother fixed the elder with a mocking glare. "So all your people have been able to come up with is that a man we have no description of is somewhere in one of the most populous cities in the world. Well done, you." Mycroft raised an eyebrow and tightened his lips, which was the equivalent of full-blown sputtering on anyone else, so Sherlock was satisfied. "What's this business about the ark?" he wondered. 

"A reference to Noah's Ark, a story in the Bible." Mycroft was starting to pontificate. Sherlock stopped him with an eye roll. 

"I know that!" 

His sibling shrugged. "The most illogical story in an extremely illogical book. I thought you may have deleted it." 

"Still a common cultural referent, and some crime is religiously motivated, so I kept the basics. All right..." He steepled his fingers and began free associating. "A ship. Animals, two by two. Endangered animals? A ship smuggling poached ivory, or parts for Chinese traditional medicine? No, doesn't make sense; Forest wants a berth. Limited space, then. What were the dimensions of the original ark?" 

"Report attached," Mycroft replied smugly.

Sherlock found the report and scanned it, whistling under his breath. "If they're recreating it literally, it would hardly be inconspicuous; this thing is huge. Any modern ship that matches those specs?" 

"Any boat built to those specifications would not be navigable. Note that there is neither keel nor rudder, nor any means of propulsion. It's basically a floating box. Of course, in the original story, that's all it had to be." 

"All right then, metaphorical. Get a berth on the ark, you're carried through the flood." He grinned suddenly. "Any reason someone might want to take out Holland?" 

"Holland," Mycroft echoed tonelessly. 

"Joking. Probably not a literal flood, any more than it's a literal ark, yeah? So a berth on the ark is a spot in -- a safe house? Bunker? Fallout shelter? Does someone have their finger on the button?" 

"Thermonuclear war makes no sense in the current political climate," Mycroft declared. 

Sherlock looked at him askance. "You mean there's a political climate where it _does_ make sense? No, don't answer that." He pondered a moment. "If a terrorist group were planning a nuclear strike against the UK, surely they would simply choose to be elsewhere rather than hunkering down in a shelter. So that's probably the wrong disaster." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "This doesn't make sense. Why would the new Moriarty be planning for disaster? Jim was into some horrible stuff, but it all made sense, given the motivation to obtain as much money and power as possible. Disasters are bad for business." 

"Indeed." Mycroft grew very thoughtful. "Perhaps the businesses have served their purpose. They've raised the money to fund whatever this is."

Sherlock stared at his brother. "That's a horrifying thought. Given the religious flavor to this, we may be dealing with religious fanatics, in which case, logic simply doesn't apply. We can't even rule out a nuclear strike; religious zealots have been known to self-immolate." 

"But if you're going to self-immolate, you don't need an ark," the elder brother chided. "Come, brother mine, you're going in circles." 

"I know, I know." The younger man leaned forward, elbows on knees, closing his eyes while he rubbed small circles into his temples. "Disaster -- war, fire, flood; maybe still too literal, hmm? Maybe -- financial collapse? A berth on the ark could be a way to keep their money safe while world markets go to hell?" 

"Cerise," Mycroft began. 

"Latest financials; on it," she chirped, tapping at her phone. 

Sherlock straightened suddenly, opening his eyes. "I don't think it's religious," he declared. "The people we know to be involved: Mary, Moriarty, Moran -- none of them have the slightest religious leanings." 

"Quite. So simply a cultural referent then." 

"Probably." Sherlock pored over the manuscript, frowning. "It seems Monaughy is not the new Moriarty, since he defers to the person in the helicopter. Who is not Moran, since they refer to him in the third person. So who is that?" 

"I've been in touch with our field agents. As far as we can see, there are no players unaccounted for." 

"So perhaps the coming disaster has shaken the spider loose from his web. Hmm." He ducked into his mind palace, trying to see the unseen player. 

In a remote, sun-drenched room in the mind palace, a child was singing in a high, clear voice: 

_Itsy-bitsy spiiider..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow, one is never done editing ... I was typing up the conversation between Mycroft and Dr. Holden where Holden describes Sherlock's mind palace, and lightning strikes: _Confidentiality, doofus!_ So that needed a quick rework. Whew, talk about catching something in the nick of time...
> 
> I sweat blood when I write casefic. I was agonising over the intercepted transmission...seriously, how likely is it that this one random convo was picked up? Then I decided that in the wake of the Moriarty transmission, Mycroft had a whole fleet of minions monitoring every single microhertz (is there such a thing?) of the radio spectrum. So that's my story and I'm sticking to it!
> 
> Please note that the characters' opinions about the Bible belong to those characters, and are not meant to offend anyone's religious sensibilities.
> 
> Kudos and comments make roses bloom in wintertime!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In store: Sherlock finds a new angle, John gets kidnaped (I would say spoiler, but no one's ever surprised when that happens, so...), and a surprise reveal.
> 
> OK, that's your appetizer. Now tuck in for the meal.

Sherlock was pulled out of his mind palace by a hard shove against his shoulder and Mycroft's announcement, "We're here. And please stop humming that inane children's song; it's got past annoying." 

"Was I? Sorry." He blinked and looked around, getting his bearings. "Here" was a rural area, considering the bucolic scene in front of him. They were parked in front of a stone farm house that would not have looked out of place two centuries ago. This quaint abode was surrounded by open pastures (therefore, no cover for an enemy to take advantage of.) Across a field behind a fence, a shaggy grey Shetland pony gave them a once over. Apparently finding them rather declasse, it turned its back and minced away haughtily, its attitude so familiar Sherlock bit his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. 

"What's amusing?" 

Of course Mycroft was observing him. "The pony walks like you." 

"How so?" 

"Like it's horrified its feet have to touch the ground." 

Mycroft did not deign to dignify this with a reply, instead loading Sherlock with his own bag and some miscellaneous luggage as they trooped inside the house. Inside, it was as modern as the outside was rustic. The entire back half of the house had been converted to a research centre. Sherlock hummed happily as he commandeered one of the empty computer stations, calling up the recent activity in Eastern Europe. After getting an overview, he zeroed in on Monaughy. He traced the man's history as far back as he could, delving into the mind palace now and then to connect up threads.

Mycroft's voice at his shoulder: "Onto something?" 

Sherlock blinked and looked around. The sun had got quite high in the sky while he'd been absorbed. Cooking odors wafted by; apparently, it was lunch time. He scrunched up his nose at that and answered his brother's question. "I'm trying to see the invisible man. Marcus Monaughy appeared on the scene ten years ago, but he didn't start the human trafficking ring; that was already well established. He wasn't one of he lieutenants in the operation, nor was this a hostile takeover, or there would have been bloodshed. Upon the death of the old head -- from natural causes, apparently -- he simply stepped into place, as if he'd been appointed by the corporate office." 

"So someone else was pulling those strings" Mycroft mused. "Our old friend James?" 

"His lines of influence never touched this operation; I'll stake my reputation on that. And the operation itself is strange. I've been tracking its history..." 

"Interesting, no doubt, brother mine, but rather tangential..." 

"No, it's not," Sherlock interrupted. "Listen to me, Mycroft. Check my logic. Because the conclusion is a game-changer." 

The older brother pulled up a chair and settled back. "All right, I'm listening." 

"All right. About twenty-five years ago, someone started snapping up small-time criminal outfits throughout eastern Poland. He rapidly consolidated the disparate gangs into a small but potent criminal organisation. For a few years, they did whatever produced a quick profit; then, as their resources and influence grew, they specialised in human trafficking. The usual MO of such operations is to convince gullible young women they're going to work as domestics in a foreign country, then addict them to drugs and pimp them out. Which they did, but from the very start, they also took a huge amount of interest in trafficking children."

"No lack of sick people in the world," Mycroft intoned. 

"But it literally doesn't add up," Sherlock continued. "The numbers are uncertain -- it's not as if we can audit their books -- but the discrepancy is so large, I'm convinced it's real." 

"Discrepancy...?" 

"Between the number of children obtained versus the number sold: at least 15%. Some of that doubtless is attrition... _("Dead children are 'attrition?' Little bit not good, Sherlock," John's voice scolded)_ ...but certainly not all. What's happening to the other children?" 

"I can't imagine. It's certainly not cost-effective to keep them." 

"I know. It intrigued me, so I did a search for similar patterns of criminal activity and found them in Ghana, Hong Kong, and America." 

Mycroft blinked rapidly, processing this. "You propose the same man instigated all four operations? You don't have the evidence to support that." 

Sherlock held up a finger. "Stay with me. Five years ago, all four of these rings stopped trafficking children, not just in the same year, but as near as I can figure, on the same day."

"Implying they all take their orders from the same person." 

"Exactly. Now: hold that thought and look at this." The younger man turned to the computer and called up a map of the world. He coloured in four swathes of red. "The human trafficking rings. Each of these operations began branching out into drugs; again, five years ago. So make those blue -- and now, Moriarty's web that I dismantled in yellow." 

Mycroft leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Well. That's rather symmetrical, isn't it?" 

Sherlock nodded eagerly. "Exactly. It's as if James Moriarty's web was set aside specifically. I don't think that we are looking for a successor at all. I think we're looking for the original instigator of all this, the _real_ spider. The Grand Moriarty, if you will. He set James in place as a bright pebble to distract the jackdaw." He tapped a long finger on his own chest. "Come to think of it, I wonder if I wasn't the pebble to his jackdaw in turn. For all his intelligence and talent, James was a loose cannon. If I wanted to use such a person, but keep him distracted and occupied..." 

"Quite. You were both caught up in the 'game.' And then you were both taken out, weren't you? Moriarty died, and you spent two years running around this merry-go-round while the larger plan, whatever it was, came to fruition." Mycroft turned his gaze inward for a moment, slotting the new information in place. Unfortunately, there were still too many missing pieces, and after a minute, he huffed in frustration. "What illumination does this shed on the original question? Why the transmission? To keep you away from here?" He tapped the red swathe in eastern Europe. "Because there's something going on there that you're uniquely qualified to see?" 

Sherlock went pale. "I'm not going," he blurted. 

Mycroft was instantly contrite. "Of course not; that would be quite impossible. I wasn't implying that at all. Come, lunch is ready."

Predictably, Sherlock demurred. "I want to keep working." 

"Doctor's orders, I'm afraid. I'm to make sure you eat." He noted the stubborn set to his sibling's jaw and derailed it with the magic word. "Compliance, baby brother." 

This earned him an eye roll, but Sherlock did obey. Cerise got up from where she'd been discreetly "not" listening at the next computer station and trailed them to the dining room. Mycroft was glad for her presence: Sherlock definitely looked a bit shaky. 

Lunch was difficult: Sherlock kept dropping into his mind palace, sometimes stopping mid-chew to chase down an errant thought. Occasionally, he muttered to himself. Mycroft had long assumed his brother had a quirk of thinking out loud, but with Dr. Holden's concerns in mind, he could hear how like one side of a conversation these snippets sounded. _Hearing voices? And for how long? I heard, but I did not observe._

Finally, towards the end of the meal -- Sherlock having managed half of what was on his plate -- the detective shook himself and seemed to snap back fully to the here and now. "Right, what's the operation?" he asked Mycroft. "You didn't drag me out here just to help with the research." 

"I dragged you out here primarily so you wouldn't be extracted from the hospital by hostile agents," his brother explained. "However, you can certainly help with the interrogation. Clearly, Mrs. Watson has been in recent contact with Mr. Monaughy. I'm going to request that she introduce us to the invisible man."

"She's not likely to cooperate," Sherlock cautioned. 

Mycroft favoured him with his frostiest smile. "Oh, I can persuade her," he purred. 

"She's pregnant," Sherlock seethed, "with John's baby. If you cause..." 

"Relax, brother mine," Mycroft soothed. "I'm simply going to explain things to her." His phone chirped and he noted, "Dr. Watson." He set the device to speaker and answered "Dr. Watson; what can I do for you?" 

"You can explain," John barked. "I go to visit Sherlock and find that you've spirited him off. So help me, Mycroft, if you've got him mixed up in one of your half-arsed doings..." 

"No worries there, John," Sherlock sang out. "All Mycroft's doings are full-arsed." He smirked and exaggerated craning his neck to look at his brother's backside. "In fact, _extra_ full-arsed." 

He expected this riposte to provoke laughter, but John just sighed and asked, "So, where are you?" 

He frowned. John's voice sounded -- wrong. Strained. He carefully made his tone nonchalant. "Oh, you know, just a small matter of Mummy's birthday." This was a blatant lie; John knew full well Mummy's birthday was in...well, not in February. 

John's response confirmed his suspicions. "Right, your Mum's birthday. Which did you decide to get her, the cashmere scarf or the Vatican cameos?" 

Sherlock's eyes widened at their code word for danger, but he kept his voice even. "The scarf, I fancy. The cameos may be difficult to find." _(Translation: "Where are you?")_

"You can look online." _(Track me.)_

"I will. It'll give me something to do on the way to France." _(Misdirection so I don't put my parents in danger.)_

"Oh, Mum's in France?" 

"Hence the two-day pass, John; do keep up." 

"Right," John said tightly. "So you'll be back in two days then, good." He hesitated a moment, and when he spoke again, it was all in a rush. "Listen, Sherlock, I gotta go. Take care of yourself, yeah?" 

"You, too." Sherlock mimed cutting his throat and as soon as the connexion was broken barked, "Track his phone!" 

"Already have," Cerise announced. "He's very near the hospital, on the edge of the grounds." 

"Satellite image those coordinates," Mycroft commanded. "We need to know exactly what's there." 

Sherlock bent down by Cerise. "I'm impressed," he murmured. "How did you know?" 

"I know Dr. Watson knows when your Mum's birthday is," she answered. "He sends her a card every year." 

And how did she know _that?_ But then, the woman's job description basically read, "Know everything." 

"Satellite image up," Cerise announced, and they crowded around her monitor. 

Mycroft squinted at the screen. "What's that, a maintenance shed?" He took in the surroundings. "No cover to speak of. This is going to be tricky." He scooped up his mobile. "Henderson, report." 

"Yes, sir. No sign of hostiles." 

The brothers shared a speculative look, then Mycroft asked, "Was Dr. Watson observed leaving the hospital?" 

"Yes, sir. Dr. Watson left the hospital at 12:46, accompanied by a female presumptively identified as Mrs. Watson." 

"Presumptively?" Sherlock barked. 

"Most of the female's face was obscured by a scarf, but height, hair color, and complexion match description for Mrs. Watson." 

"And there's been no other activity?" Mycroft pressed. 

"No, sir. The only other visitors were positively identified by the hospital staff as the parents of one of the patients." 

"Henderson, we have a situation. It seems Dr. Watson is being held in the maintenance shed." 

"Sir?" 

"Possibly enemy agents were secreted there before we began our surveillance yesterday. Get infrared sensors on that building; let me know how many bodies are inside." 

"Ten minutes to get the equipment, sir." 

"Very good." Mycroft hung up. 

"Doesn't make sense," Sherlock muttered. "Why the maintenance shed? She could take him anywhere; all it would take is--" pitching his voice falsetto -- " 'Oh, darling, let me drive!' "

"She meant to acquire you," Mycroft mused. "Your not being there threw a spanner in the works. Now, she's improvising." 

"Improvising!" Sherlock scoffed. "Do you remember who we're dealing with? She does nothing without a Plan B and a Plan C. No, she's exactly where she wants to be. She didn't disable the GPS on John's phone because she wants _us_ to know exactly where she is. We're missing something." They spent the next several minutes studying the satellite image from all angles, until Mycroft's phone rang again. 

"Henderson?" He listened a moment, blinked in surprise, then barked, "Stand by." He swiped off the phone and lowered it slowly while pronouncing the word, "Two." 

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "They're alone in there? Curiouser and curiouser." 

They had no time to contemplate this before Mycroft's mobile sounded again. Once again, he set it to speaker. "Yes, Dr. Watson?" 

"Mycroft," John replied, and the tone of his voice sent Sherlock's heart to his shoes. He sounded like a man who knows he is facing his own death. "My -- _hostess_ would like to inform you that she is aware of your agents' activities, and unless you order them to fall back, she is going to start shooting: first my feet, then my ankles, then knees; you get the drift." 

"I see," Mycroft replied blandly, but John was already pressing on. 

"She further says she will negotiate for my release with you and Sherlock. The two of you must come together, and no one else." 

"That's quite a demand," the British Government noted. "Can your 'hostess' speak for herself?"

"Don't think that's on," John said quickly. "Gentlemen, I'd appreci--" the call ended. 

"Let's go." Sherlock started towards the door. 

"Wait!" The older brother called to his retreating back. "You're letting your sentimental attachment to Dr. Watson --" 

"Yes," Sherlock hissed. "That's our move, Mycroft. Her whole intent is to secure us for the Grand Moriarty. Well -- isn't that who we want to meet? He certainly doesn't just want us dead." 

"And you know this because...?" 

"Because _the spider left his web._ He wouldn't do that just to kill us; he has people to handle that sort of thing. And one of them is pointing a gun at my best friend right now, so can we just --?" 

"Yes, but not half-cocked. Cerise, extraction kits." 

Within three minutes, both brothers had no fewer than four subcutaneous tracking devices implanted where the puncture marks wouldn't be obvious. They piled in the car, and Cerise continued her ministrations while they sped towards their destination. Lengths of monofilament were woven in their hair; tiny lock picks and other such devices secreted in their clothes. Mycroft, meanwhile, was on the phone to Henderson and other members of his team. By the time the car pulled up outside the hospital grounds, no fewer than ten exit strategies had been defined. 

"Let me try talking to her before you do anything," Sherlock begged. "Mary and I, we understand each other." 

"Be my guest." The brothers approached the shed and Mycroft rapped softly. 

"Enter slowly," came the instruction. Sherlock frowned. Mary's voice sounded different: tight and thin. Was the tension getting to her? This could be delicate; he would have to talk her down. He eased through the door. John was facing him, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, handcuffed to a pipe. The rest of the scene brought a strong feeling of deja vu: a whiff of Claire de la Lune, a petite woman facing away from him, holding a gun, wispy blonde curls escaping her hat. "Mary, listen," he began, in as calm a voice as he could manage. "This isn't necessary. We--" 

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "That isn't Mary." 

Without altering her aim on John, the woman turned so they could see her face. Both Holmes brothers goggled in astonishment, but it was Mycroft who breathed out the name: 

"Lady Smallwood."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had that final scene in mind from the moment I conceived this fic. Sherlock confusing Mary with Lady Smallwood, this time in reverse. Hope you enjoyed that!
> 
> Kudos and comments put the candyman to shame!


	13. Chapter 13

"Hello, Mycroft," she chirruped with false cheeriness. She gestured with the gun. "Both of you: over there by the good doctor." She backed up as far as she could to allow them past. 

_She's never been a field agent,_ Sherlock realised. _She must have had some trick up her sleeve to subdue John, but this situation is completely untenable._ He glanced at his brother and saw the same knowledge in his eyes, along with the slightest of nods: _Go!_

Telegraphing meekness, Sherlock started to shuffle past, then bent double and flung himself sideways in a body tackle. He jackknifed upright just as suddenly, deliberately knocking Lady Smallwood's jaw back with the top of his head and forcing her arm up as he wrenched her wrist. The gun dropped with a satisfying clatter. Unfortunately, this was followed by an ominous groan as the shelving unit Sherlock had crashed them into gave way. For a moment, the brothers were busy just protecting their heads as power tools and sundry items rained down in the small space. 

Straightening up, Sherlock saw that Lady Smallwood had landed badly. Her head was canted at an odd angle, and her eyes stared glassily at nothing. 

"Damn it!" Mycroft cursed. "We needed her alive!" 

"Yes, I should have calculated the strength of the shelves first" Sherlock replied, so deadpan John wasn't sure if that was sarcasm. The younger brother took out a lock pick and made short work of John's handcuffs. 

"Can you resuscitate her, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft asked. 

John winced as he straightened her neck to clear her airway. "I'll do my best, although she won't thank me." He started compressions while Mycroft called an ambulance. "Sherlock, two rescue breaths every time I say, 'breathe.' I think," he huffed as he worked, "the shelves caught her head and wrenched it as they collapsed. Breathe, Sherlock. Her skull is off its moorings. It's called internal decapitation. Breathe, Sherlock. If she lives, she's going to be a quadriplegic." 

They fell silent then, the quiet broken only by the rhythmic compressions punctuated by the command, "Breathe." Before long, they heard the blare of a siren. When the paramedics crowded in, Mycroft wasted no time putting the fear of ... well, Mycroft ... in them.

"This woman has information that is vital to our national security," he intoned. "You are to continue resuscitation efforts until there is absolutely no hope. Is that clear?" 

There was a flurry of agreements and technical jargon while John handed off her care to them, then they loaded the woman into the ambulance and were gone. Mycroft sighed bleakly: he hadn't needed to understand the rapid-fire medical abbreviations to read the expressions of the EMT's and conclude that Lady Smallwood's chances were effectively nil. "We needed her to talk," he moaned. 

John snorted. "Should have been here earlier. I was wishing she would _stop_ talking. She was on some sort of bizarre rant about deserving a spot on the ark." 

Both brothers snapped their focus to him. Sherlock breathed, "Small wood ... Forest? But you said no influential women had gone dark." 

"She didn't, as far as we know. Last month, Lord Smallwood started cancer treatment in Edinburgh and Lady Smallwood went to be at his side. She checked in with the office frequently, and one could hear the ambient sounds of a hospital in the background." 

"Easily faked," Sherlock noted. 

"True," Mycroft conceded. "Dr. Watson, pray return with us. We are going to need a word-for-word account of your interaction with Lady Smallwood." 

They turned to leave, but Sherlock tugged his brother's sleeve to hold him back and whispered, "Mary." 

Mycroft nodded. "Quite right. The operation to retrieve her should not proceed until we understand how this new information affects things." He got on the phone. 

"So it was a half-arsed doing," John muttered to Sherlock as they got in the car. 

"We got intel that Monaughy was in London," Sherlock replied. He brought John up to speed as they returned to the safe house. They were nearly there when Mycroft's phone rang again. His lips tightened infinitesimally as he listened, then he thanked the caller and tucked the device away with great care. 

"Lady Smallwood has been declared dead," he replied flatly. 

The sombre mood was shattered by a snort of inappropriate laughter from Sherlock. "Oops, I did it again," he muttered.

Mycroft frowned. "What's this?" 

"Killed a bad guy -- or gal, I guess," Sherlock explained. "And after I was ready to pinky swear and everything." There was a hint of hysteria in his voice, and Cerise laid her hand on his forearm, surreptitiously taking his pulse as she tried to ground him. 

"Mr. Holmes," she soothed, "I need you to try to centre yourself." 

"I don't _have_ a centre!" Sherlock spat with sudden venom. "It's part of my problem, I'm sure." He noted the meaningful look that passed between Cerise and his brother. "No," he ground out. "Cerise, stop fingering that syringe in your pocket. I can calm down." He drew a shuddering deep breath as he dropped his shoulders, forcing tense muscles to relax. "I just can't seem to stop killing people," he said with false lightness. "Dreadful habit, that. Much worse than drugs." 

"It was an accident," John enunciated. 

Sherlock turned a searching gaze on him, and for an instant, John could see miles of desperation behind his eyes. Then he blinked, and the moment was gone. "Of course," he murmured agreeably. "An accident." He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, retreating into his mind palace for the remainder of the trip. 

Once they arrived at the farmhouse, Mycroft ushered them into a conference room. There were no cameras in evidence that John could see, but Cerise's first act on sitting down was to peck at her smartphone and announce, "Verified, we're recording." 

Mycroft nodded and stated formally, "Debriefing of Dr. John H. Watson, re Lady Alicia Smallwood. Also present: Sherlock Holmes and my PA, current code name 'Cerise.' Dr. Watson, please describe when and where you encountered Lady Smallwood today." 

"When was about 12:30 this afternoon," John said thoughtfully. "I'd gone to the hospital to visit Sherlock. Lady Smallwood was just turning away from the front desk as I walked up. 

" 'Lady Smallwood,' I greeted. 'I didn't expect to see you here.' 

"She blinked at me, then suddenly smiled. It gave me an odd feeling, but I figured she was just preoccupied with something. 'I've never forgotten how Mr. Holmes tried to help me,' she said, 'but I'm afraid we've missed him, Dr. Watson. The desk just informed me that his brother signed him out on a two-day pass.'

"Well, I groused about that a bit..." 

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft interrupted. 

"Hunh?" 

"I did say word for word, as precisely as you can manage. You're doing quite well; please continue in that vein." 

John puffed out his cheeks, then shrugged. "I said, 'What's that poncy git up to now?' " Sherlock stifled a giggle while Mycroft pointedly did not react. 

"She said, 'Let me treat you to some of the horrible tea they have here." I could see she had something she wanted to say, so I agreed and we went to the canteen. 

"Once we were seated, she asked, 'How is Mr. Holmes?' 

"I answered, 'I can only speak in the most general terms. There's a matter of confidentiality to consider.' 

" 'In those general terms, then,' she agreed. 

"I said, 'He's doing quite well. He's being compliant and making progress.' " 

"Yay me," Sherlock snarked. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him and he subsided. 

John continued, "This is where it starts to get strange. She was nattering on about something and don't ask me for the word-for-word, because I honestly have no memory of it. It all started blending together into white noise. My head was buzzing and there was a metallic taste on the back of my tongue. Then, all of a sudden, everything went clear. Not just clear, super-clear. It was like every single nanosecond was discrete, and I was completely _in_ each of those nanoseconds. There wasn't a thought in my head. I was completely relaxed; in fact, I felt wonderful. 

"I must have had a goofy grin on my face, but Lady Smallwood just nodded and said quietly, 'Dr. Watson, would you mind touching your nose for me?' 

"It was in my mind to ask why, but I never opened my mouth. Instead, my left hand came up, my index finger extended and plonked itself on the tip of my nose. She said. 'Excellent, put your hand down now.' Again, my hand just obeyed her. From very far away, a piece of my mind that still belonged to me was screaming that this wasn't right, but I couldn't do a thing about it. 

"Lady Smallwood said, 'Help a lady on with her coat. Then put on your own coat and come with me.' Again, I watched myself do all that. We left the hospital and started towards the car park. About halfway there, I regained enough sense of myself to try to resist. It was difficult, like one of those nightmares where you know you're dreaming, but you can't make yourself wake up. All I could manage was to choke out a stuttered, 'No, no, no,' and slow my pace a little. 

"Lady Smallwood looked panicked. I think she'd expected whatever she dosed me with to last a lot longer. She looked around frantically, then ordered, 'Maintenance shed!' I was still fighting, and had slowed my pace considerably, but when she barked, 'Now!' I couldn't help speeding up. Once we were away from prying eyes, she handcuffed me to a pipe, then settled back. 

" 'So much for bringing you to Edinburgh,' she said. 'Originally, I was going to use Sherlock to get Mycroft, but I can just use you to get both Holmes brothers at once. Yes, I rather fancy that.' I wasn't buying it, though. She wasn't 'fancying' anything about this. It was obvious whatever plan she'd had had gone tits up and she was in a blind panic. 

"She said, 'You're going to be pretty useless until that wears off, so I guess we can just relax.' She was anything but relaxed, though, prowling around like a caged tiger. 

"If I had any doubts the lady was unhinged, the next few minutes erased them. What came out of her mouth was a rambling, incoherent, hysterical rant. She repeated herself frequently, and every few minutes, she'd ask me to do something meaningless like lift my foot, to check if the drug was still working. So I'm gonna edit that stuff out. 

"She said, 'You're lucky you're still fairly young, Dr. Watson. You get to be a certain age -- especially if you're a woman -- and you become invisible. Years and years of hard work, and you get shunted aside like so much garbage. Did they really think I wouldn't find out they'd moved the date up? They were going to leave me behind, and why? Because they consider me too old to make a meaningful contribution. Well, let me tell you I've made my contribution over the years. I earned my spot on the ark. If I don't deserve it, nobody does. Twenty-five years of risk and loyal service. I was the one who recruited the very first subject, you know. That little sweet thing my husband purportedly had a dalliance with? She was the first. You don't really think I'd get so exercised over a quarter-century old scandal, do you? Nobody cares about that sort of thing nowadays. No, those weren't love letters, they were coded instructions. If Magnussen had deciphered them...well, I don't have to worry about that anymore. Sherlock really surprised me. Bang, problem solved. I'd throw him a parade, but it'd be unseemly.' "

Mycroft held up his hand to interrupt John. "Brother mine," he addressed Sherlock. "Do you need to take a break?" 

John glanced over. Sherlock had gone pale and very, very still. Predictably, he answered, "I'm fine. But does she do much more ranting about ... that?" 

"No. I'm sorry; I should have..." 

Sherlock spat out, "Just keep going." 

"Right. She said, 'Oh, those Holmes brothers. Well, as long as I've got them, I've got my berth on the ark. He won't leave them behind. The only way he gets them is to bring me along. As he should. The work I've done for that man. Sherlock thought Moriarty was a spider? Moriarty couldn't hold a candle to the _real_ spider. I can't wait to see their faces. They're going to be so shocked.' 

"By this time, I was quite recovered, but I continued playing possum in the hope that I could make sense out of all this raving. She saw through me, though, and laughed. She said, 'Stop thinking so hard, Doctor, you'll strain your brain. You have a question?' 

"I said, 'Yeah, what's this crap about an ark?' 

"She said, 'Surely that's not too hard a puzzle even for you, Dr. Watson. The ark carries the chosen ones through the flood. That was my job, you know: choosing. Procurement, if you will. Here in England, that is. Later, the programme expanded to Asia, Africa, America. Hitler's mistake was thinking greatness resided only in one master race; of course, that's nonsense. The spark of genius can take hold anywhere, but that spark can never burst into flame when it's smothered by the mass of idiots crowding this planet.' 

"I had a horrible feeling. I said, 'So your solution is -- the final solution?' 

"She smiled, and I swear, the expression was pure evil. She said, 'On a scale Hitler could never have imagined.' Suddenly, she was all business. She said, 'Take out your phone and call Mycroft. Find out where he and Sherlock are. And don't try anything clever. I need you alive to be a viable bargaining chip but I don't necessarily have to keep you in one piece.' So then I called you. Do you need me to relate our phone conversation for the record?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Just anything further Lady Smallwood said." 

John shrugged. "Actually, at that point, she pretty well clammed up. Not completely: every once in a while, she'd mutter something like, 'How dare he,' and then she'd be off on another rant, but it was all pretty much repetition of what she'd already said. Oh, she did say the spider came to London to extract his wife, then she burst into laughter. I have no idea what was so funny, and I wasn't inclined to ask. Shortly after she calmed down, you arrived." 

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully, then said, "End interview." Cerise tapped at her phone and a printer in the corner sprang to life, spitting out transcripts of what John had just said. 

Sherlock jumped up and started pacing rapidly, tapping his steepled fingers against his chin as he walked. "Coded instructions," he mused. Addressing Mycroft: "MI6 combed through Appledore and Magnussen's office after he was shot; did they find Lady Smallwood's letters?" 

"They did," his brother replied. "And they were returned to her. Unopened." 

Sherlock growled softly in frustration, and without breaking stride, snatched one of the transcripts out of the printer. "Yes!" he crowed. "Africa, Asia, America -- it fits. Human trafficking rings in all those places, with a special interest in children. And the ten to fifteen percent in each case unaccounted for -- the gifted?" 

"So it's all about eugenics," John remarked, disgust writ large on his face. "And a spot on the ark is a way to stay alive when the average idiots like me are snuffed. How's that going to work?" 

"That is indeed the question," Mycroft agreed. "And we know who knows the answer. Mr. Monaughy knew Sherlock's location; very few people are privy to that information. Myself and Lady Smallwood, our parents, you, of course, and ..." 

"Mary," John breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eugenics is one the more horrifying sequelae of Darwinism. Even granting an apparently noble purpose -- the improvement of humankind -- there's no way to do that without cutting huge holes in our humanity. My humble opinion.
> 
> Something to ponder. And when you're done pondering, mash that kudos button and tell me what you thought.


	14. Chapter 14

There was a long silence, broken only by Cerise tapping on her phone. After a moment, she announced, "Mrs. Watson was observed entering 221B Baker St., accompanied by an unidentified male." 

"Pictures?" Mycroft barked. 

"No clear pictures of the face, sorry." 

"So is that the invisible man or the spider?" Sherlock wondered. "And what do they want at my flat?" He clapped his hands together gleefully, the familiar manic glint in his eye. "Let's go find out, shall we?" 

_"We,"_ Mycroft intoned, "shall do nothing of the kind. I'm sending in a team to extract them..." 

"Whoa!" John exclaimed. "Mycroft, think it through. By now, Mary certainly knows Sherlock's not where he's supposed to be -- and therefore, I'm not where I'm supposed to be, namely, visiting him. So she knows something's up. You can't imagine she'd be unprepared for an 'extraction.' If the operation goes south, you're risking the baby." 

"Built-in hostage," Sherlock remarked. "Mycroft, the same logic applies here as it did to Lady Smallwood. We know they don't just want us dead -- they've had ample opportunity to kill us -- so our best move is to walk into the lion's den and find out exactly what they do want. If this is indeed a conspiracy of the intelligent, they may expect us to be sympathetic to their cause." He shrugged. "In any case, John is right about attempting an extraction: far too risky." 

"A conspiracy of the intelligent," Mycroft mused. "All right, you and I..." 

"You're not leaving me behind," John interrupted. "That's my daughter in there; I'm going to be there to protect her." 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, giving John a look of cool assessment. This did nothing to improve John's temper: he lifted his chin defiantly and stared Mycroft down, barrel-chested, thumbs hooked into his belt, the picture of barely restrained violence. As a threat, it was unimpressive: in a house full of agents, the elder Holmes needed only a single word to subdue Dr. Watson, if he chose. Still, the man's loyalty and passion spoke well of him, and after a long, tense moment, he nodded his acquiescence. "Cerise..." 

"Extraction kit; on it," his PA sang out. 

John relaxed and submitted to Cerise's ministrations. Mycroft, however, grew increasingly thoughtful. "I wonder," he mused. "Mrs. Watson is on to us, but does she necessarily know we're on to her? Perhaps we can get her to drop her guard." He fixed John with an intent stare. "Call her, Dr. Watson. Give her no details, but tell her there's a break in the case, and I'll be sending a car to bring her to a safe house. One of two things will happen: Either she'll pretend it's business as usual, or she and this unidentified man will bolt -- and it will be most instructive to see where they bolt _to._ " He pulled out his own mobile. "Take a moment to gather your thoughts while I provide instructions to my team." 

While he was busy, Sherlock chimed in. "Remember to say nothing untrue. She's a highly trained operative and intimately familiar with you; she will detect a lie." 

"Got it," John muttered, and placed the call. "Mary. Sorry I didn't call earlier; how are both my girls doing? Good. Listen; the Moriarty case just heated up red hot. Mycroft pulled Sherlock out of the hospital and picked me up, too. He's going to send a car to bring you to the safe house..." Pause. "They got some intel... that I really can't discuss right now, because Mycroft's glaring daggers at me. Anyway, someone should be there in about half an hour ... oh. What are you doing there?" Pause. "Ah. Thoughtful of you. OK, stay put, someone will be along soon. Love you. Bye." He broke the connexion. "The verdict is: business as usual." 

"What was her reason for being at my flat?" Sherlock wondered. 

"Collecting some of your own sheets for you to use, since you complain about the hospital linens so much." 

"Huh. That _is_ thoughtful." 

"I don't know, Mycroft," John said. "Do you think that if we really did just send a car for her she'd get in?" 

"Not for a microsecond. Remember Lady Smallwood's sense of urgency. Whatever is transpiring, time is short now. She will not allow herself to be captured." 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Well, then. Into battle?" They trooped out. 

As they got settled in the car, Mycroft remarked, "I have medical personnel standing by. In the event Mrs. Watson is injured or killed, every effort will be made to save the baby." His reassuring smile left a lot to be desired, John thought. 

A tense silence fell over the car, the mood inside being matched by a grey, petulant drizzle that started up outside. Not another word was spoken until they pulled up to 221B. 

The three men started up the stairs. There was no need for subterfuge, but John and Sherlock both avoided the squeaky step out of habit. Halfway up, both Holmes brothers stopped short, scenting the air. A moment later, John had it, too: coffee. Freshly brewed and high quality, if the aroma was anything to go by. 

Speculative looks were shared all around, then John touched Mycroft's wrist and eased past him. "I'm taking point," Captain Watson commanded. He laid his hand on the doorknob. _Business as usual._ Deciding to act casual, he opened the door and stepped through. 

The sight that greeted them was surreal: it seemed that every piece of paper in the flat had been gone through. Stacks and stacks surrounded Sherlock's chair, where Mary sprawled, the picture of relaxation, save that the hand loosely draped her pregnant belly was clutching a gun. 

"Oh, can I call it!" she laughed lightly upon seeing them. "I knew it would be the three of you. Please, come in. Don't let my little friend --" she waved the gun -- "intimidate you. I just like to be prepared." There was a clatter of crockery from the kitchen. "Darling," she sang out, "let's serve coffee out here; that kitchen's a disaster." 

"I quite agree," came a cultured baritone voice from the kitchen. A tall, fit man about Mycroft's age stepped into the room, balancing a coffee tray. "Really, Billy, this filthy hovel you call a home..." He scrutinised Sherlock, apparently expecting a response. "Billy?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are cherries on my cake!


	15. Chapter 15

It took John a long moment to catch on that _William_ Sherlock Scott Holmes = _Billy_ , and another moment to realise that Sherlock had gone into the same "systems overload" state he'd seen when he asked him to be his last man. The tall stranger noticed it, too. He set down the coffee tray quickly and stepped forward, a concerned frown creasing his forehead. "Oh, dear. He does seem to have gone right off-line." 

Mycroft stepped protectively in front of his younger sibling, radiating cold fury. The other man was unimpressed, chuckling softly. "Is that menace you're conveying? I suppose you do have reason to be cross with me; I am violating the arrangement." 

"Arrangement?" That shaky whisper came from Sherlock, and Mycroft turned to face him. "There was an arrangement?" Horrified realisation dawned in his eyes and he glared at his older brother. _"You knew!"_

"No. Not at first; not until years later; believe me, Sherlock. By the time I found out, there didn't seem to be any benefit to telling you." 

"Benefit," Sherlock echoed with a mirthless laugh. "What was the arrangement?" 

"That I never set foot in England ever again," the stranger said. 

Sherlock's eyebrows flew upward. "So you set him loose!" 

"Not I!" Mycroft reminded. 

Sherlock dismissed this with a tired wave of his hand. The tall stranger glanced about the room and favoured them all with a sunny smile. "Well, let's get our little kaffee klatsche under way. Billy ..." 

"Sherlock," the younger man snapped. 

The other man scoffed. "Still just baby Billy to me. As I was saying, I hope you don't mind if my darling Annaliese uses what is obviously your chair. And Mycroft, your --" he considered John's chair and cocked his head at Mycroft, frowning. "No, not yours." His gaze fell to John. "Yours." 

John lifted his chin and stepped forward aggressively. "John Watson, who the hell are you?" 

The man laughed aloud. "Quite right; we haven't been introduced. You're the host, Billy, it falls to you. Nice and polite; you remember how." 

Sherlock shot him a death glare but complied. "Dr. John Watson, my I present my eldest brother, Mr. Sherrinford Holmes." He finished this recitation by folding himself into the clients' chair.

Well, that accounted for the familiarity and the childish nickname. Now that it had been pointed out, John could plainly see he was a Holmes. Sherlock and Mycroft did not look much alike, but put this man between them, and the family resemblances clicked into place. His hair was a wavy auburn, his skin tone a shade darker than Sherlock's alabaster. His cheekbones were not quite as pronounced as Sherlock's; his nose not quite as prominent as Mycroft's. The eyes were shaped like Mycroft's, and they were heterochromatic. Unlike his youngest brother's kaleidoscope of blue, green, and silver, Sherrinford's eyes had flecks of sea-foam green stippled through irises of stormy blue. 

He was, in fact, strikingly handsome. John had never been one to be intimidated by that, though, so he played along with the charade, nodding a polite acknowledgment before turning his attention to his erstwhile wife. "Pleased to meet you as well, _Annaliese._ " 

Mary shrugged and smiled, and it was an extra twist of the knife as John realised the smile was genuinely _fond._ "Mission accomplished; I'm being extracted," she explained. 

"Mission?" John barked. 

"To insinuate myself with the Holmes brothers. The easiest way to do that was through you." 

Sherrinford picked up the coffeepot and started pouring. "After Billy took his little tumble, I was 90% sure he was still alive. If so, sooner or later, he would contact Dr. Watson. He always had such a soft spot for his pets." The smile he directed at John was absolutely soulless. "You'd be amazed what you can make a little boy do, once he understands you _will_ hurt the dog." 

John went white-lipped with rage. "You bastard," he choked out. "If you're implying what I think you are..." 

"You'll what? Sic me?" He handed a cup to Annaliese. "You made it easy, you know. One word in the ear of James, and later, Charles, and they knew just how to make Billy dance. Although Charles did insist on doing his own experiment in that regard. He never took anything on faith, that one." He raised the next cup as an offering and was met with three stony glares. "Well, I'm having some. I have the beans flown in from Venezuela; they're quite my favourite."

John ignored him, having come to an unwelcome conclusion. "An abusive sibling," he said with deceptive calmness, "should appear somewhere in all those pages of psychiatrists' notes, but he doesn't. So that little detail must have been redacted." He glared daggers at Mycroft. 

"Not by me," Mycroft insisted. 

"Erased," Sherlock whispered. All eyes turned to him. "Father said he was being erased." 

Mycroft nodded. "Father was thorough." 

John shook his head. "How could your father alter medical records?" 

His confusion was met with a low hoot of derision from Sherrinford. "Let me guess: you fell for his _Don't mind me; I'm just a humming moron_ routine." He gave a bark of laughter. "Who do you think had the job before him?" With a nod to Mycroft. 

"What, a Holmes dynasty?" 

Sherrinford lifted his chin proudly. "There has been a Holmes defending the throne for as long as there's _been_ a throne. Some of the stories about Merlin..." 

"Darling," Annaliese chided. 

"Well, I suppose this is neither the time nor place. To the business at hand--" He withdrew a large vial from his pocket. "55 mls. Ten mls is an effective dose, so there are five doses in there, plus 5 ml for you to analyse. That should be ample. Each dose is a berth on the ark. My family -- my _genes_ must survive, so two doses are for Billy and Mycroft. I leave it up to you gentlemen to decide who get the other three. Although, fair warning--" he directed a meaningful look at John-- "pets will have to be spayed." 

"I'm nobody's pet!" John spat. 

"You'd better hope you are, doctor, because you don't qualify on your own. And I'd keep a civil tongue in my head, if I were you. It's my call whether you get a vasectomy or an orchidectomy." 

"Yeah, one burning question about that," John grated. "If pets aren't allowed to breed..." he nodded to Annaliese's belly. 

"Oh, this?" She tapped her fingers against it playfully. "Don't worry; not yours." 

"Of course not." He huffed out a mirthless laugh. "What do you know, Sherlock, I could have left anytime."

Sherlock didn't answer, apparently absorbed in studying his fingers. Sherrinford narrowed his eyes at him. "Awfully quiet there, Billy." 

"How many?" Sherlock rasped. He looked up, and John had never seen pure hatred pouring from his eyes as it did just then. "After you finished with me, how many little boys?" 

"Oh, for--!" Sherrinford scoffed. "I'm no paedophile. You were an experiment. My first foray into the use of pain, humiliation, intimidation -- it was most instructive." 

"Glad to have been of service," Sherlock replied tonelessly, and the flatness of it set off alarm bells in the doctor's head. _He's not going to last much longer. He needs time to regroup, preferably in a dark, quiet room._

"Sherrinford," Mycroft said quietly, "you can't believe you're going to just walk out of here." 

"But that's the beauty of it, brother mine. Arrest me if you wish. Incarcerate me, torture me, kill me -- nothing can stop it now." 

"Are you saying you surrender?" 

Sherrinford spread his hands and blessed them with another of his sunny smiles. "Absolutely." 

Mycroft held out his hand to Annaliese. "Then, Mrs. Watson..." 

"Mrs. Holmes, actually." She reversed her grip on the gun and gave it to him. "Brother-in-law mine." 

John snorted. "It just keeps getting better. Annaliese Holmes. Well, it suits you better than Mary Watson ever did." 

"Marcus Monaughy," Sherlock announced. 

"What?" 

"That's the other name you've gone by, isn't it?" 

Annaliese raised her eyebrows. "That's very good, Sherlock. How did you deduce it?" 

"Voice distorters. The conversation we intercepted. It made sense for the man in the helicopter to disguise his voice; he was probably an international criminal of some renown. But Monaughy is addressed by name, so why use a distorter? Except to disguise the fact that the invisible man is a woman; one whose voice would be easily recognised by certain security personnel." With a nod to his brother.

John hissed through his teeth. "You? The human trafficker? You're a woman yourself; how could you consign other women to lives of horrific abuse?" 

"Oh, please," Annaliese scoffed. "They were weak. They should be thankful we saw fit to use them." 

John stepped back as if stung, and his eyes were flint. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for saying that. It no longer hurts to hate you." He turned away. "You better get her out of my sight quickly, Mycroft." 

Mycroft put the phone to his ear. "Henderson, send in your team; we have two hostiles for you to escort to detention." He scooped up the vial and put it in his pocket as he addressed Sherrinford. "Brother mine, we will talk when the analysis is complete." 

Four agents trooped in, and John felt nothing but relief as his "wife" was handcuffed and led away under armed guard. He turned to Mycroft. "I take it MI6 has a laboratory?" 

"State of the art." 

"Why don't you go ahead; Sherlock and I will stay..." 

"What?" Sherlock yelped and flew to his feet. "No, I want to do the analysis." 

"There is a crack team at the laboratory; they will not need your assistance. And Dr. Watson is right: you need some downtime." 

"Downtime? Do you know what my brain does with downtime?" 

"Sherlock, obey your doctor," Mycroft ordered. He dug out of his pocket the small bag containing Sherlock's meds, handed it off to John, and left. 

Sherlock rounded on John, spitting venom. _"Downtime?!"_

John shrugged and collected the used coffee cups, deliberately acting casual. "At least catch your breath; you've had an awful lot to deal with today. From what happened to Lady Smallwood to having a long-lost brother step out of your kitchen ... I'm guessing you thought he was in jail?" 

"I thought he was dead," Sherlock said hollowly. "Instead, our father faked his death and sent him off into exile. Who knew Mycroft was taking pages out of Dad's playbook?" He heaved a sigh and threw himself into his chair. "It must have been at Mummy's behest. He was her firstborn; I understand there's a certain sentiment that attaches." 

"Yeah, I'm still trying to wrap my head around your father being MI6." 

"He's a lot more like Mycroft than you think. He doesn't do angry; he just deals with it. You don't want to be on the receiving end of whatever that entails. But Mycroft never mastered that affable persona. It disarms people, makes them trust him. Worked on me," he finished bitterly.

"You feel betrayed," John ventured. 

"Obviously." He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. "God, I want a hit right now." 

"Yeah, not happening." 

"I know. Instead, I get to listen to my thoughts marching around and around in my head." 

"You could try talking about it," John suggested. 

"Ah, my doctor wants to psychoanalyse me." 

"No, Sherlock, your friend wants to listen." 

_"Go ahead,"_ said John's voice in his head. _"You know you can trust me."_

"You would say that," the detective snapped. 

"Sorry?" 

"Not talking to you; I was talking to..." he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of his temple. "...you," he finished. The absurdity of it struck him. He laughed shortly, then gestured expansively at his friend's chair. "Sit, John. Listen. But listen well, because I am never going to repeat this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherrinford; a/k/a, "the other one." I like him sooo much better than Eurus!
> 
> I wrote "Venezuela" before I researched it, and realised I didn't know if Venezuela even produces coffee. Turns out it does grow a little and those varieties are highly prized, but it exports almost none. So of course, being a Holmes, Sherrinford flies in this almost unobtainable coffee. How did I know that?
> 
> Orchidectomy is surgical removal of the testicles. Ouch!
> 
> One wonders when Mary and Sherrinford found time to make a baby. Probably, they didn't do it conventionally. One imagines the instigators of such a complex plan didn't have much time together, yet with their genetic legacy at stake and Mary's biological clock ticking, they may have arranged for Sherrinford to send his, ummm, little soldiers to Mary's encampment. To torture a metaphor.
> 
> Next chapter: the back story that WASN'T in Mycroft's notes.
> 
> Kudos and comments cast rainbows across my sky!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: This is where the tags about animal and child abuse come in. It's not terribly graphic, but if it may be triggering, please take care of you.

"I was five," Sherlock started, "which made Sherrinford fifteen. He took me into the woods behind our house and made me watch as he tortured and killed small animals he found: hedgehogs, voles, the occasional stray cat. He said that if I told on him, he'd do the same to my dog, to our mother -- I believed him. For the next four years, I never breathed a word as he --" Sherlock's breath hitched, and he swallowed hard. "Well. We don't need details, do we? Now that I'm reflecting on it, he might be telling the truth about not being a paedophile. The sex was -- incidental. Just a perk. He was far more interested in inflicting pain. That was his field of study, and he was a very -- _thorough_ researcher. And very careful; he never left a mark." 

"No one in your family noticed? Your behaviour must have changed." 

"Actually not. You forget, I had the mind palace. I couldn't escape all the way inside it: if he didn't get a sufficient response, he'd just go at it harder. But I could ameliorate the worst of it, and when the session was over, I'd take the memory and shove it into a locked room. Then I'd go about my business. The only thing that really changed is that I latched on to Mycroft like a limpet. I wanted to go everywhere with him, because I didn't want to be left with Sherrinford. Of course, Mycroft ditched his pesky little brother at every opportunity." 

"Is that why he's so protective of you now?" John wondered. "He thinks he should have seen something was wrong?" 

"No, he's just a controlling git," Sherlock contradicted, but with no real heat. "Anyway, the summer I was nine, Sherrinford was home from uni for the long vacay, and he finally made a mistake: he made me bleed. I hid the bloody pants, but Mummy found them and hauled me off to a doctor, who understood immediately what was going on. 

"Sherrinford disappeared. My father commanded the kind of resources Mycroft does today, but even he couldn't find him. Summer passed and the new school term began. We were about three weeks into it, when I came home one day and my dog, Redbeard, wasn't there to greet me. That didn't worry me: there was a warren of rabbits at the bottom of the hill, and sometimes he wore himself out chasing them. I figured that's where he was, so I grabbed a couple of biscuits from the kitchen and went to hunt him up.

"Halfway there, I was grabbed and dragged into the woods. Sherrinford, of course. He had Redbeard there, tethered and muzzled. He gagged me and tied me to a tree and made me watch as he took my best friend -- my only friend -- and he..." Sherlock had to stop and breathe a moment before he could choke out, "he skinned him alive." 

"Jesus," John breathed. 

In a shockingly normal voice, Sherlock continued, "He left us there. Redbeard fought so hard -- my valiant first mate. He was still breathing when Mycroft found us about half an hour later. As an adult, I think the best thing would have been to fetch Father's hunting rifle, but as a child...I begged so hard, Mycroft bundled the dog up and rushed him to the vet. There was nothing for it, of course: he had to be put down. 

"I didn't take it well. I had a major meltdown and took to my bed for a week. A few days after I started functioning again, Father announced that Sherrinford had stolen a car and, when pursued by police, had crashed at high speed. The car had burned, but the body had been positively identified through dental records. Father also said that he had declined to claim the body, and that Sherrinford Holmes was to be erased. His name was never spoken again, and over the next few weeks, every trace of him was purged from our home. His clothes, his school papers, his rugby trophies, his clarinet; every photograph he'd ever been in -- all destroyed. His bedroom was turned into an office. His name was even blotted out of the family Bible. I thought he was gone." 

"And then this," John mused. "What a nightmare." Sherlock seemed disinclined to respond, so he opened the bag of pills and found Sherlock's "as needed" sleep scrip. 

Sherlock's jaw set defiantly. "John, no." 

"I think it's necessary. You're wiped out." Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but John forged ahead. "You just told me a heart-wrenching story with almost no affect. You're not processing anything because you're past your limit..." 

"I'm not 'processing' because I don't have time..." 

"But you do," John insisted. "The analysis will take hours; you might as well sleep."

John fetched a glass of water and shook a pill into Sherlock's hand. He stared at it for a long moment before putting it in his mouth with visible reluctance. "I hate this," he muttered as he knocked the water back. 

"The sleeping pill? Does it have side effects?" 

"No, the whole conditional pardon." His voice took on the saccharine tones of a too-nice nanny: " 'Go to therapy, Sherlock; take your meds, Sherlock; go to sleep, Sherlock; that's not enough calories, Sherlock, here's an awful milkshake for you to choke down.' And it goes on and on until I'm 'sufficiently stabilised.' What does that even mean, John? I haven't the first idea how to do 'stable.' " 

"It's a matter of degree, I guess," John mused. "You've always been volatile; that's just you and I wouldn't change it if I could. But between the therapy to resolve your issues and the meds to stabilise your moods, you'll get to the point where everyone's reasonably sure you won't ... act impulsively," he finished lamely. 

"You mean pop off and shoot somebody," Sherlock bit out. "I wasn't insane when I did that, John. Magnussen left me no choice." 

The doctor considered pursuing that point, but the detective was plainly done in. Sleep really would be the best thing. He got Sherlock settled, then he had to deal with an oppressively quiet flat. Cable and Wi-Fi had both been discontinued, so he was reduced to pottering about. He tried to sort through the masses of papers, but the sheer volume was so daunting, he soon gave up. Besides, any order he imposed would probably be promptly un-imposed by Sherlock. If he couldn't grasp the man's sock index, he certainly had no hope of mastering his filing system. 

After a couple of hours of mindless net-surfing on his phone, John sent off to Mycroft a one-character text: "?" The answer was almost equally terse: "Stand by."

Four hours later, John had drifted off when a heavy tread on the stairs alerted him to Mycroft's return. He eased into the flat, and his expression blasted any remaining shreds of sleep from John's brain: the Iceman looked devastated. He spared John the barest of nods in greeting and let himself into Sherlock's room. There was a querulous murmur as the detective was roused, then the sound of an urgent, but maddeningly inaudible, conversation. 

Momentarily, the bedroom door opened and the brothers emerged, Sherlock stumbling a bit as he shook off the effects of the pill. Mycroft marched up to John, pulled a syringe from his pocket and said heavily, "Dr. Watson, if you could roll up your sleeve, please." 

John eyed the needle warily. "That's the stuff that was in the vial?" Mycroft nodded. "Yeah, I'm going to need to know what that is before I let you pour it into my veins." 

"I'll explain everything as soon as you take the injection," Mycroft said smoothly. 

John wasn't buying it. "Nuh-uh. Talk. It's a little thing called informed consent." 

"John, please," Sherlock rasped. "You have to." 

The doctor studied him. His friend was wide-eyed and ashen. A frisson of fear trickled down John's spine as he identified the shadow on both brothers' faces: defeat. Neither Holmes believed they could win this one. Almost, he relented, but then his resolve stiffened. If the situation were so dire, it was all the more reason to be fully informed. 

"What I have to do," he insisted, "is get all the relevant information before I consent to being injected with some concoction cooked up by a criminal mastermind." 

The brothers conducted a wordless conversation with their eyes, which culminated with Mycroft recapping the needle and dropping it back into his pocket. "Very well." He lowered himself into the client's chair and drew a deep breath before speaking softly: "I am not a religious man, Dr. Watson, but I find I have been praying nonstop since the results of the analysis came through. A simple prayer, three words: 

"God help us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A similar story with a much different ending makes up the theme of my short fic "A Tale of Three Princes." If you're interested.
> 
> I wrote this before TFP (and wouldn't have used any of TFP anyway, tbh), so I had to think of why the pet dog's death would be so traumatising. I already had the abusive brother as part of my head canon, so abusive brother abuses dog...it worked!


	17. Chapter 17

The sombre mood was shattered by a snort and eye roll from Sherlock. "And people call me a drama queen! Just get on with it, Mycroft!" 

"Very well. The vial contained a vaccine. The analysis is not complete -- a total sequencing will take much more time than we have -- but what we know is sufficient to tell us that if this virus is released, the resulting pandemic will be nothing less than Armageddon." 

"The virus in question," Sherlock picked up the thread, "is Ebola, but it's an engineered strain. There are sequences spliced in that correspond to influenza." 

Understanding hit John like a punch in the gut. "They altered the mode of transmission." Retroviruses like Ebola are actually difficult to catch; one needs contact with an infected person's bodily fluids. But flu can be breathed in, or picked up from surfaces. "That's diabolical," he marveled, horrified. "You wouldn't even need a specialised device to disperse it. Just smear some on a surface many people touch." 

"The automatic ticket dispenser in an airport comes to mind," Mycroft suggested. "And, of course, there's an incubation period, so the infected people walk around for two or three weeks, infecting others as they go ... some of whom then travel to other places ... by the time the first outbreaks appear, it will be impossible to contain." 

"So that's it?" John rasped. "We're reduced to playing his game, his way? Vaccinate ourselves and watch the world go to hell?" 

"We will stop him," Mycroft insisted. "Failing that, we will bring him to justice. But we can do neither if we are dead." 

Inarguable logic, that. To Sherlock's obvious relief, John acquiesced to the shot. 

"Excellent," Mycroft purred. "Now we're left with the question of who gets the last dose." 

"Sorry? I thought there were two left?" 

"Two doses for Sherlock and me. I chose Gregory to get one of the remaining doses, and Sherlock, of course, chose you. Therefore, your choice, Dr. Watson: who gets the remaining vaccination?" 

John shook his head, wide-eyed. "I don't want to make that choice. Offer it to Greg." 

"That would be unspeakably cruel. There is only one dose left, and he has two children." 

"Oh. Right." John sank his head into his hands, pondering deeply. As a trauma surgeon, he was accustomed to the idea of triage, and in combat, one faced difficult decisions about who to save. But to dispassionately pick only one of his associates to live felt horribly wrong. 

Practical considerations, then. Stop them, or bring them to justice. Who would be best suited to those endeavours? Mike Stamford had a deep knowledge of all things medical, but the man had no stomach for crises. With deep regret, John rejected him. His former commander, James Sholto, was the opposite: ice water in his veins and a fearsome skill set if it came down to taking these people out. But James jealously guarded his privacy; indeed, the man was so embittered, he might just sympathise with a plan to sweep away the world's idiots. 

John decided there was only one choice: knowledgeable, discreet, and accustomed to working with a Holmes. "Molly Hooper." 

"So ordered." He raised the phone to his ear to inform Cerise. Sherlock busied himself poking about the stacked papers. Suddenly, he stiffened, once again doing the rapid blinking thing. "Liars," he muttered. 

"How's that?" 

"Sherrinford and Ma -- Annaliese. Liars. Don't you see it?" He gestured to the stacks. "They wanted to know what we know. But if nothing could stop it, why would that matter?" He started pacing. "It's the rooftop all over again. There's a way to stop it, a recall code of some sort. Moriarty died rather than reveal it, and Sherrinford let himself be arrested, my brother's expectations to the contrary notwithstanding. Why?" 

Mycroft pocketed his phone and drifted over. "You're onto something?" 

"Pondering parallels," Sherlock replied. "Moriarty let himself be arrested, knowing full well he was going to walk out of that courtroom free. Sherrinford knows you're going to lock him into MI6's ultra-high security facility, but he doesn't just allow it, he practically begs you to do so. Clearly, he also expects to walk out of there. Why?" 

"There's another mole," Mycroft mused. "Lady Smallwood could not have been the only one; remember, she was being dismissed. Sherrinford would not have trusted her with this." 

"I wonder why they were squeezing her out," John frowned. "She certainly seemed dedicated to their cause." 

"Biology, perhaps," Mycroft speculated. "Their programme is centred around genetic material. After a certain age, a woman has no useful genetic material. Space on the 'ark' is limited, which implies the vaccine is either difficult or expensive to produce. So..." he finished with a shrug. 

"Wow, that's cold." 

"Eugenics is a cold business." 

"Puts a premium on young women, doesn't it?" Sherlock remarked. "The traffickers must have been winnowing out especially intelligent women to produce their super-babies, willingly or otherwise. Also makes sense that they stopped five years ago. When the pandemic hits, utter chaos is going to reign. It'd be best not to have babies and toddlers underfoot." 

"Oh, brave new world," John muttered. "So our next job is Whack-A-Mole?" 

"Whacking him would be counterproductive," Mycroft replied. 

"I understand that," John said. "I was referring to the game. You know the one: you have a hammer, and there's a, um, a ... mole ..." Twin Holmesian blank stares. "Never mind. Sometimes I wonder what planet you two are from." 

The brothers dismissed this in favour of narrowing down who the mole might be. "Sir Edwin?" Sherlock wondered. "He's highly placed." 

"He has a certain political acumen, but his intellect is far from Sherrinford's standards," Mycroft returned. "Sir Robert seems likelier." 

Both men whipped out their phones and started searches. After a moment, Sherlock made a moue of disappointment. "Is he afflicted with sentiment?" 

"How do you mean?" 

"He has a special-needs child. Granted, it isn't a genetic condition, but..." 

"Hmm, yes." 

John sat back, watching them work. It was hard not to feel intimidated by the two geniuses, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought they were going about it wrong. To determine _who_ the mole might be, you first had to ask _what_ he was. There were several specific things this operative needed to be able to accomplish, and as he considered it, he realised the list of people who could fulfill those requirements contained only one name: 

_Mycroft Holmes._

_Dear God,_ John thought, struggling to keep his epiphany from showing on his face, _what an elegant double-cross. Under the guise of 'investigating', he can spin us in as many circles as he wants. How long have those two brothers been plotting together? And their father might be complicit, even their mother. She's a scary smart one, right? And Sherlock ... Sherlock's the 'special needs' child in the family, isn't he? The one that needs to be protected. Keep him distracted with a little game like Moriarty while the grown-ups work things out. And he won't see it. In the crowning irony of all time, he won't even go down that deductive path because of sentiment. If he does see it, he might not believe he can fight it. He's had it drummed into his head since he was a wee tyke that Mycroft is the smarter one._

_We're doomed._

But Captain Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers could not accept defeat so meekly. He stretched, stifled a yawn, and mumbled a sentence containing the word "tea." On the way to the kitchen, he casually touched Sherlock's shoulder in a way he knew the detective would recognise from countless stakeouts and criminal pursuits; a way that meant, "Follow me." 

Sure enough, in a couple of minutes, Sherlock drifted in. Wasting no time, John grabbed him by the wrist and tugged him along until they were both secreted in the loo. 

"People will talk," the detective remarked drily. 

John could spare no psychic energy for the inside joke. "I'm hoping your brother has enough respect for privacy that there's no surveillance in here. Sherlock -- God, I've never wanted to be wrong so badly in my life. But -- I don't think there's a mole at all. I think your brothers are working together." 

Predictably, the response was a disbelieving laugh. "Ridiculous. Mycroft doesn't think that way." 

"Doesn't he?" John insisted as gently as possible. "Doesn't he consider himself a lone intelligence in a sea of goldfish? How much compunction would you have about flushing some goldfish, as long as you could keep some extra-nice ones for pets?" 

"No," Sherlock whispered, shaking his head in distress. "That ... that's not evidence." 

"Think about the transmission. You said whoever did that would have had to know about your exile at about the same time Mycroft did. We know he can play the CCTV cameras like a piano; why would broadcast cameras be a challenge?" 

"Mary sent the transmission." 

"We fingered Mary for it, and she rolled with it, but that also is not evidence." John could see his friend casting about, desperately seeking a line of reasoning that could disprove this. He sent up a prayer to St. Sigmund and all gods of psychiatry that Sherlock could hold it together, and pressed home his final point. "And think of what you just said about Sherrinford and his so-called wife skipping out of here like children, with nary a care in the world. He knows he's going to be un-arrested just as easily. You're looking for a mole, but realistically, who's the only person who could arrange that?" 

"Why exclude me, then? My IQ is certainly up to Sherrinford's standards." 

"Yes, but you have a moral compass your brothers lack. And spare me the 'sociopath' bit. You've put your life on the line for your friends over and over; sociopaths don't do that." John peered up at the taller man, seeing doubt stamped on his face. "You don't think you would have gone along with it?" 

"Not lately; not since..." _Not since I've had John Watson to keep me right._ "Not since I've matured. But I spent most of my 20's in a drugged haze, hating the world, hating myself -- I may have been persuaded, then." He drew a long, shuddering breath and closed his eyes, pressing his fingers to his temples. "God, it's like an earthquake in the mind palace -- the foundation's cracking. So many things I thought I knew are wrong." He physically shook himself and squared his shoulders. "I need to know. I can't very well ask him if he's been working with Sherrinford, but I can ask him if he suspected Sherrinford was involved. I know his tells; if he's lying, I'll know." He turned away and grabbed the doorknob, then stopped dead, shoulders slumping. "He'll know," he muttered. "He'll see I'm all worked up, and he'll know. Not to mention it's entirely possible a surveillance camera caught you pulling me into the loo, and how do we explain that?" 

John favoured him with a broad smirk, and when Sherlock didn't catch on, he laughed outright. "Well, the whole world seems to have a certain opinion about us, so let's just go with it." He ignored his friend's blink of surprise as he reached over and undid his top shirt button, then mussed the dark curls and smoothed them back into place, deliberately missing a spot. "There. You walk out of here looking moderately embarrassed and a bit out of breath, and I'll follow in a minute, looking smug and out of breath." 

Sherlock nodded and folded his arms, fidgeting a bit with eyes downcast. To John's amazement, a soft blush really did rise to dust the younger man's cheekbones. He opened the door and eased himself out with precisely the air of feigned nonchalance one would expect in such a circumstance. 

_And the BAFTA for best performance on a surveillance camera goes to..._ John chuckled, then sobered. _And I better take second place, because fooling Mycroft Holmes is going to be tough._ He gathered his courage and followed Sherlock. _Into battle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I know...it takes much longer than 6 hours for DNA sequencing. But if every crime show on TV can have the DNA results come back whenever it's convenient in the plot, then so can I, dagnab it!
> 
> So we know Sherlock is a consummate actor, and I certainly don't think John is at all bad at it. He sure enjoyed pulling rank at Baskerville. I'm pretty sure he can take the BAFTA for supporting actor.
> 
> Kudos and comments are the hot fudge on my sundae!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Put up your bumbershoot; serious psychodrama storm on its way!!

After such a buildup, it was with a strong sense of anticlimax that John walked into the siting room to have Sherlock greet him with a terse, "You're wrong." 

"An astute observation, however, Dr. Watson," Mycroft added. "And it does leave us with quite the puzzle." 

"Perhaps it's the wrong puzzle," Sherlock mused. "Even if we identify this person, there's no guarantee we could get to him or make him talk." He repaired to his room and returned holding the briefcase that contained the original case files. He extracted a thick folder. "Maybe we can figure out the recall signal. Here's the data on the original transmission." The brothers were shortly engrossed in a conversation using progressively more esoteric jargon. Feeling a bit at sea, John wandered into the kitchen, deciding tea really did sound good. A hunt through the cabinets unearthed an unopened box of chocolate hobnobs. He arranged these with the three mugs of tea on a tray and rejoined the brothers. 

"Progress, gentlemen?" he asked. 

Mycroft sighed as he reached for a mug. "We understand how the message was encoded, but of course, that doesn't tell us what the recall message would be." 

"It would be a short message, but it would have to be distinctive," Sherlock supplied. 

_Too easy,_ John thought, but he said it anyway. "Did you miss me?" 

"First thing we tried," the older brother replied with a condescending smile. "It doesn't work." 

The doctor frowned at this. "How could it not work?" 

"There is a mathematical component to the cipher. Now, in English, there are 21 consonants and 5 vowels, so..." 

"Wait, wait." John stood stock still, his thoughts slotting together almost too fast for him to follow. He took a moment to savour the sensation. _Is this how Sherlock feels all the time? No wonder he loves it._ Out loud, he asked, "Why English? Wasn't my wi-- or your sister-in-law -- working out of Poland at first?" 

Both Holmses gaped at him, then Sherlock asked in an oddly strangled voice, "How do you say, 'Did you miss me?' in Polish?" 

Mycroft nodded and wrote the short phrase. There was flurry of figuring and when they looked up, Sherlock was positively beaming at John. 

"My conductor of light," he marveled. "He seldom has the right answer, but he excels at asking the right question." 

"Left-handed compliment, but I'll take it," John muttered, reaching for a hobnob. 

"Right, we have the code and the message; now we just need the frequency," Mycroft pondered. 

"They wouldn't use the same one?" John asked. 

Sherlock shook his head. "The Moriarty message was a generalised broadcast to the entire UK. This will be a narrowcast, transmitted to four specific spots scattered across the globe. It's a very different proposition." 

"I do hope we don't have to rely on interrogation," Mycroft sighed. "We don't have the time, and the information would not be reliable." 

"A recall code is basically a panic button," Sherlock pointed out. "He would have it easily accessible. It might even be an app on his phone." 

Mycroft scoffed at this. "The man practically begged to be arrested; we will find nothing on his phone." He thought a second. "Although we will, of course, look. To Security." He drained the tea mug and got to his feet. 

"Wait." Sherlock scurried to his bedroom and returned with the Browning, which he handed to John. "Could be dangerous." 

John smiled as he gave the gun a quick, professional once-over. "You said dangerous, and here I am," he replied as he slipped the gun into his pocket. 

They exited into the night. It had got quite late by then -- or early, depending on one's perspective -- and London was as dark and quiet as it ever got. Security, it turned out, was accessed through a parking structure, but their driver did not park. Instead, he pulled up to a blank wall and, in a twist worthy of James Bond, entered a code on a keypad on the dash. The entire centre section of the wall sank noiselessly into the ground, giving them access to another ramp that spiraled down for several more stories before the car stopped. From there, they walked down a short passage to a door that required Mycroft to submit to both a retina scan and voice recognition. The door opened onto a corridor that was blindingly, painfully, white; floors, walls, and ceiling. Sherlock flinched hard, and John laid a hand on his forearm. 

"OK?" 

Sherlock took a breath and nodded brusquely, trotting after his brother. Mycroft led them to an anteroom that fronted a row of cells. This area, too, was brightly lit. 

"They keep it bright 24/7 to disrupt the prisoners' circadian rhythms," Sherlock explained. "They did that to me in Serbia." 

That gave John pause. _If the good guys and the bad guys use the same techniques..._ But there was too strong a thread of patriotism in him to go down that rabbit hole. Besides, his attention was arrested by his companions, both of whom were looking rather perturbed. 

"This isn't right," Mycroft muttered, scrolling through a computer log, at the same time Sherlock breathed, "Too quiet." He started down the row of cells and stiffened in surprise. "Brother mine, you didn't order the execution of one of your guards, did you?" 

The two others joined him to see a man in a guard's uniform lying face down, shot execution style in the back of the head. "Which explains why he didn't log out," Mycroft observed drily. A quick trip down the row revealed one more guard and six prisoners, all similarly dispatched. 

"How many prisoners should there be, minus Sherrinford and Annaliese?" Sherlock asked. 

"Eight," his brother replied. 

"Obvious deduction: the two at large have genius-level IQ's." 

"Of course." 

"How?" John exploded. "Could this Henderson fellow have been compromised?" 

Their conversation was interrupted by the buzz-click of the anteroom door opening. Two armed men walked in. John's fingers twitched, eager for his gun, but the strategist in him knew better: in this narrow corridor, their assailants would be shooting fish in a barrel. 

"Messers Holmes and guest," one called out, irony colouring his voice. "Your brother wants to see you." 

After a long moment, Mycroft put on his most imperious face, tugged at a miniscule imperfection in the lie of his suit coat, and led the way. John followed, glaring daggers at the two goons. His anger made him quick-step, but shortly, he fell back, matching his pace to Sherlock's. The youngest Holmes seemed out of it, shuffling along a bit dazedly. He even stumbled heavily against John at one point. 

_He shouldn't be feeling any effects from the sleeping pills anymore. Something's wrong._ John reached to take his companion's pulse, but Sherlock batted his hand away. 

"I'm fine," he growled, and with a short huff, he seemed to shake off the unsteadiness and quickened his pace. 

They had not far to go. Soon, they were ushered into a break room. The remains of a meal were on the table. They were surprised to see Greg and Molly seated there, while Cerise stood behind them. Annaliese lounged nearby, popping an occasional grape in her mouth, while at the head of the table, Sherrinford rose to greet the new arrivals. 

And so, our little group is complete," he said. "As you can see, I took the liberty of collecting your goldfish. Can you imagine a better safehouse? While the world upstairs bleeds out, we'll be down here, living in comfort." One of the thugs reached down and retrieved a rope, but Sherrinford waved him off. "Not necessary. Our new guests will be glad to behave, seeing that it's the goldfish who will suffer the consequences of any indiscretions on their part." 

Edging forward, the men could see that Greg and Molly were, in fact, tied to their chairs. Mycroft's gaze rested on Cerise and he favoured her with a small, mirthless smile. "Well played, my dear," he pronounced. 

John's jaw dropped. "Anthea? I mean, Cer--" 

"Dianne," she interrupted. "My real name, which I am reclaiming as of now." 

"So you were a plant?" the British Government asked. He read the answer instantly. "No, a recruit. They won you over to their side. Why?" 

Her answer seemed a non sequiter: "Three doctors say Joe is my brother. Joe says, 'I have no brothers.' Explain it." 

John thought that was awfully easy. "The doctors are his sisters." 

"Count yourself among the enlightened, Dr. Watson. This far into the 21st century, 71% of the population is still stumped by that old chestnut." She turned to Mycroft, eyes flashing. "You think you rule the world because you make all these high-powered decisions. Who do you think executes your decisions? Whose job is it to know what you need before you yourself know it? And whose reputation as your right hand is so rock-solid that when I dismissed the overnight staff here, not one person thought to call you for confirmation?" 

"But what's in it for you?" Sherlock wondered. 

"An end to glass ceilings. In the new world, intelligence, not gender, decides how far you can go. Although, ironically, Mycroft, you and I are going to make beautiful babies together. Not that I'll bear them ... well, maybe one for sentiment's sake. You should see our genomes side by side. Poetry." 

Sherlock opened his mouth, and John clapped a warning hand on his forearm before he could say something a bit not good. Dianne watched their byplay with a smirk and consulted her phone. "The new world commences in five minutes." 

Five minutes? Sherlock rocked back on his heels, head swimming at this news. He had walked into the room with half a plan forming, involving negotiation and possibly taking a hostage, but five minutes made that impossible. 

A large, heavy hand descended on his shoulder, and he turned to stare into blue and silver eyes: his own eyes, but gone cold. "You have to let me handle this," the cold one said, and Sherlock found himself shoved backwards, into the front hall of his mind palace. He could only watch as the Killer pulled out the gun he'd pickpocketed from John. The two thugs got it first, the shots ringing out so fast neither had a chance to react. Neither woman was armed, but both were reaching, and that sealed their doom. Identical crimson roses blossomed on the foreheads of Dianne and Annaliese. This had taken just a trace over ten seconds. Then the Killer turned to Sherrinford -- and stopped cold. Sherrinford had a gun pressed to Mycroft's temple and was using him as a human shield. 

Impasse. 

There was a rustle of taffeta behind him, and Sherlock turned to see Mary in her wedding dress. "He doesn't know where," the bride said, "but you do." She pointed, pressing her finger against the puckered scar from the bullet she'd put in him. With that touch, he was suddenly completely in his body again, the gun rock-steady in his hand. 

In an utterly clear, serene voice, Sherlock said, "I love you, Mikey," and pulled the trigger. 

On the echoes of the gunshot, a cacophony of voices erupted in the mind palace. He could hear Moriarty howling with glee _(Yes! Yes! So much for the side of the angels!)_ , but he had no time for that now. He gently eased Mycroft's body _(don't think about it, don't think about it, don'tthinkaboutit),_ off Sherrinford's. A quick search produced Sherrinford's phone, and Sherlock pressed the app he knew must be there. With a massive effort of will, he narrowed his focus to the phone, ignoring Mummy _(Young man, shooting your brothers is completely unacceptable),_ John _(A bit not good, Sherlock),_ and Mycroft _(A fine time to be undeterred by sentiment.)_ while he keyed in the short code phrase. Within a minute, four texts came through, each bearing the same message: 

"Abort confirmed." 

Sherlock dropped the phone. Somewhere far away, a baby was crying. _That doesn't make sense_ was his last coherent though before he fell backwards into the maelstrom and let the East Wind sweep him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, sorry for the red herring. Did any of you twig to Cerise?
> 
> It's probably obvious I know no cryptography. Not sure what I wrote even made sense, but I read somewhere that Polish counts its consonants and vowels differently from English, and decided to throw that in.
> 
> I actually had the image of Sherlock being forced to shoot Mycroft for some reason in my head for a couple of years before TFP aired. Mofftiss owes me a finder's fee, maybe.
> 
> Poor Sherlock! He just saved the world, but was it at the price of his own sanity? The rest of the fic is the magical mystery tour through Sherlock's psyche.
> 
> Kudos and comments are more fun than bubble baths!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, let's help Sherlock make sense out of what just happened, OK?

For Sherlock, regaining consciousness was like swimming upwards through molasses. His whole body felt heavy, and it was the work of long moments to slit his eyelids open. This was a mistake: the light lanced in painfully. He slammed them shut again and tried to take stock. He'd been with John and Mycroft at 221B ... the smell of coffee ... no, that was wrong; he'd been out of coffee forever. 

What had happened? 

His mind refused to produce anything resembling a reliable memory. In fact, his mind palace as a whole seemed to be shuttered: he couldn't get in. He couldn't even find the closed gate; there was only a featureless wall. He could feel vibrations through it, though, as if something inside were rumbling. It occurred to him that that should be frightening, but he couldn't detect any such emotion. All his thoughts and feelings seemed oddly distant. 

There was a rustle of movement by him, and he braved the light to see Ian nearby, tapping on a tablet. He tried to say, "Ian," but all that came out was a hoarse croak. His mouth was horribly dry; his tongue, a wooden block. 

It did, however, attract Ian's attention. The big ginger man discerned the problem immediately. "Just a mo." He moved out of Sherlock's line of sight and came back carrying a cup of ice chips. "Here, this will help." He spooned some into Sherlock's mouth. 

Oh, heaven. That trickle of cool moisture was exactly what he wanted. He opened his mouth for more, and more, before he tried talking again. 

"Ian." Much better. "I feel so strange." 

"Yeah, you're on some pretty strong meds right now." 

"Meds?" That couldn't be right. "No, I didn't ... didn't conshent." Dear God, was he really slurring his words? 

"I know, I'm sorry. We had no choice. You suffered a psychotic break." 

Psychosis? Was that what that rumbling was? He shook his head; nothing made sense. "Can't ... can't remember." 

"There's not much _to_ remember. You've been under sedation for most of it." 

"Hmmm." His eyes were drifting shut again. "Hate being this groggy." 

"Nah, don't worry about that. Sleep as much as you need to. You're in the middle of a neurological reboot; it takes a lot out of you." 

_Neurological reboot._ Sherlock found that oddly comforting. _Maybe once the reboot is complete, access to the Palace will be restored. Maybe it'll even do a defrag ... the whole thing's got so unruly lately..._ With a soft sigh, Sherlock sank back beneath the molasses. 

  


The next time Sherlock surfaced, Dr. Holden was there. "Good afternoon," he greeted him. 

Without preamble, Sherlock blurted, "You put me on meds." 

"I did. It was absolutely necessary, and your advocate agreed with me. We'll discuss that some more later. Right now, I want to take a look at you." He raised the bed to a sitting position and performed a cursory examination, which Sherlock endured stoically. He finished with the simple question, "How do you feel?" 

How, indeed? There was no pain, but there was no access to the mind palace, either, and he still couldn't detect the faintest stirring of any kind of emotion. He settled for answering, "Numb.' 

"Perfectly understandable." The doctor made a notation on his tablet and sat back. "I'm going to ask you some questions." 

Oh, he knew this drill. "My name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I am currently in the MI6 psychiatric facility, London, England. You are my psychiatrist, Dr. Holden. I am hearing no voices other than our own. Sorry, no clue as to the date, and I still don't give a rat's arse who the PM is." 

Dr. Holden chuckled and may have said more, but Sherlock was sinking again. It wasn't like molasses anymore, he decided; more like a feather bed. Nice ... he drifted away. 

  


The third time Sherlock came to, it was to full wakefulness and full memory, at least up to the gunshots. He opened his eyes to see John by his bed, nose stuck in a ridiculous thriller. "John," he began, then hesitated. There was so much he wanted to ask, he didn't know where to start. He decided on the most important question first. "Abort confirmed -- four messages. I'm remembering that right, yeah?" 

"You are." John smiled. "You did it, you know. You literally saved the world. You have to accept that knighthood now." 

Sherlock's response to that was a mirthless laugh as he sat up. "Oh, that's perfect. Blow away a piece of human phlegm like Magnussen, get sentenced to death. Murder my brothers, get knighted. And _I'm_ the one in the asylum. 

John blinked at this and replied, "Oh, God, no one's told you yet. Mycroft's alive." 

Now it was Sherlock's turn to gape. "Alive? What's his condition?" 

"Serious, but no longer critical. He's going to have a long road back, but he's definitely going to make it." 

The detective studied his friend for a few seconds, then demanded, "Now tell me the bad news." 

John sighed. "Try to keep a secret from a Holmes. Yeah, the bullet nicked the spine." He held up a finger. 'It did _not_ sever the spinal cord, but there was considerable insult: swelling and compression. Time will tell how much permanent damage was done." 

"Lovely. I may have put my brother in a wheelchair." 

"It's much too soon to tell. And that's a worst-case scenario. It's far likelier he'll regain at least some mobility." 

"I want to see him." To John's joy, that had some of the old, imperious Sherlock in it. 

"Not yet," he demurred. "Neither of you is well enough to leave the hospital. It's late tonight, but we'll see about arranging a phone call in the morning, all right?" 

Sherlock nodded and asked his next question: "Sherrinford?" 

"Bled out. The doctor on hand --" indicating himself -- "had to do triage; could only save one." He shrugged. "I guess I should offer condolences; he _was_ your brother." 

"Well... he wasn't a very _nice_ brother." They shared a lopsided grin, but Sherlock sobered quickly. "What happened after I ... checked out?" 

"It got pretty frantic. As soon as you shot the women, Molly -- our meek, mild Molly -- tore the ropes off her wrists like they were threads. She grabbed a knife off the table and made a flying lunge for Annaliese. She had that baby delivered in under a minute. She took a few seconds to cut Gregory loose, then ran off down the hallway. 

"Greg got on the landline. Mycroft must have told him what to say in an emergency, because it only took him a couple of minutes before he yelled that the ambulance was on its way. Meanwhile, I was trying to keep Mycroft going. Was that deliberate, your shooting him in the same place you were shot?" 

Sherlock nodded. "I survived, so I hoped he would, too." 

"Good call, but it was a near thing. Thank goodness, not three minutes had gone by before Molly came back pushing a cart full of surgical supplies. No blood, but plenty of electrolyte fluid, so we were able to stave off hypovolemic shock. With Molly assisting, I did some of the quickest, dirtiest field surgery I've done in my life, holding Mycroft together until help arrived." 

Sherlock absorbed this, then asked very quietly, "Where was I?" 

John answered, "Ahh ... you wound up sitting on the floor." He was reluctant to say more, but Sherlock's expression made it plain prevarication was not an option. As gently as possible, he added, "You were ... rocking. And crying -- well, more like keening. Then you started talking to a whole crowd of people none of us could see. All different languages, and different ... voices. You did a really eerie impression of Moriarty at one point. Greg stayed by you; made sure you didn't hurt yourself." 

A sudden flash of memory: Greg saying urgently, "It'll help you calm down; there's a lad." Sherlock blurted, "He helped restrain me while they sedated me." 

"Yeah. I'm sorry; it was necessary." 

"Obviously." He bowed his head, cringing inwardly. Had he tried, he could not devise a more humiliating scenario. _Rocking,_ for Christ's sake! Crying, screaming, needing to be sedated, restrained ... had they used a straitjacket? Those were obsolete, weren't they? 

And John, wonderful, impossible John, still sticking by him in spite of his dissolution. How had he ever repaid such loyalty, except with grief upon grief? And now ... looking forward, Sherlock shuddered. John would stay by him. Selfishly, he wanted him to stay, with every molecule of his body. But he couldn't ask that of him. 

Sherlock held out his hand, waited for John to take it. "John. Thank you for being here for me all this time. I --" Really, there was only one set of words for this. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much." He dropped John's hand. "But you should go now, and not return." 

John's smile froze. "Where's this coming from?" 

"They'll never let me out now. Not after that ... massacre." He studied the hands he was twisting in his lap. "I expect there's a locked facility in my near future. I don't want you to see me like that." 

"Like -- what? Manacles around your wrist and ankles attached to a chain around your waist, that sort of thing?" Sherlock nodded glumly. John put two fingers under his friend's chin and exerted a gentle but insistent upward pressure. "Sherlock, look at me." Once he had the detective's full attention, John pronounced with the utmost sincerity, "You are a numpty." He waited a moment for that to sink in, then added, "No one is going to lock you away. You've got a seasoned copper, a war veteran, and the British Government all testifying that your use of deadly force was absolutely justified." 

"Was it?" he asked flatly. "Five more notches on my belt. Six, if Mycroft had died. Seven, if Molly hadn't delivered the baby. A _baby,_ John! Apparently, there's no limit to what I'll kill." He drew his knees up, huddling miserably. 

"Hey, no, stop. Stop that right now. You had no choice; those people weren't going to listen to sweet reason. As far as the baby goes, Annaliese was reaching for her gun. If she'd got it, it would have been game over for us. You know what a good shot she was." John blinked as he realised something. "Come to think of it, I don't remember you being such an expert marksman. I used to joke it was a good thing you only shot at walls, because you didn't have much chance of hitting anything else." 

"I trained hard for a month before I left to take down Moriarty's web. Mycroft insisted." Sherlock laughed ruefully. "I fought him on it. I was going to use my intellect to do this. I surely wouldn't need anything so crude as a firearm." He sighed and tipped his head back. "Big brother was right. He always is." 

John leaned forward, studying his friend, who in turn was studying the ceiling. "You've never talked about your time away." 

"It was wonderful," Sherlock said tonelessly. "I wore tuxedos and played banco in casinos every night." 

"Yeah, I don't believe that." 

"You'd like to, though." Sherlock's gaze never left the ceiling. "You'd like to believe in your hero, the knight: Sir Sherlock on a white stallion, sweeping away the bad guys with the power of his mind. The truth is much uglier." 

"Of course it is." John chose his words carefully. "Sherlock, I've been to war. I don't have any illusions as to what the type of work you were doing entails. I may write Sir Sherlock to get hits on the blog, but you don't have to be a white knight for me to believe in you. You just have to be Sherlock." 

"And who's that?" came the brittle question. 

"My friend." 

That was the right answer. Sherlock's smile was relaxed and genuine, for the first time since he woke up. "Yes, John, always that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a medical expert, so if you are and see something I got egregiously wrong, let me know and I'll try to fix it.
> 
> Yay, Mycroft lives!
> 
> Poor Sherlock's heaping so much guilt on himself, isn't he? He's going to be grappling with that a lot more coming up... and yay, John, being all supportive-like. See Mofftiss, this is the John we were expecting.
> 
> Just lovely, lovely, comments I've got lately....keep 'em coming! Food and drink they are!
> 
> And if you think of it, mash the kudos button.


	20. Chapter 20

"It's the first lesson they teach you," Sherlock mused. Frequently during this therapy session, he stole glances out the window. Outside, it was as February a day as one could imagine, leaden skies turning the world into a black-and-white photograph of itself. Many would consider the view depressing, but the detective found it soothing. Considering the subject at hand, he was glad enough of it. He continued, "They hammer at it relentlessly. When you use deadly force, you are 'taking out targets.' They never, ever use the phrase, 'killing people.' This is what must be done to accomplish the mission, and the mission is God. What god doesn't demand sacrifices? I want very badly to pretend that's what happened in the security facility: that I concluded there was only one way to fulfill the mission objectives, and acted according to my training. I could make a pretty good case for that, actually. But the truth isn't so simple." 

He indulged in another long look at the monochrome picture outside. Dr. Holden let the moment stretch before he prompted, "The truth?" 

"Hmm, yes. Well, to understand the truth, we have to go back to the first strand of Moriarty's web I took down. It was a gun-running operation straddling the Sino-Russian border. Nasty business, they even trafficked in yellowcake on occasion. Goes without saying, it was heavily guarded. The only way in was to take out two guards at one spot. So, I acted in complete accordance with my training. I had the timing down, I had a clear line of sight, I had cover, I had two separate escape routes mapped out in case things went south, and I had my equipment -- everything was perfectly prepared. Then I looked through my scope -- and I didn't see a target. I saw a kid. I'd be surprised if he shaved regularly. Just a boy, playing soldier, looking bored -- and I couldn't do it." Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes a moment to let the memory wash over him. "I tried. I really did. I reminded myself of mission objectives. There were lives on the line, lives I could save as long as I first sacrificed this ... _child._ But I literally could not make myself pull that trigger. I packed up and went back to my bolthole. 

"I had some hard thinking to do. If I reneged on the mission, I squandered the huge opportunity my apparent death had opened up. I also would be severely limiting Mycroft's options. He was providing me with as much support as he could on the down low, but if I walked away, he would have to use his own agents and lose plausible deniability. And there were some things that needed doing that Her Majesty would wish not to be traced back to the Crown. 

"So: I had to do it, but I couldn't do it. I went round and round on that for hours. I finally decided that if I couldn't do it, I could invent someone who could. This was new for me: I'd never constructed an avatar before. I wasn't sure I could do it." 

"How did you do it?" the psychiatrist asked when Sherlock fell silent again. 

"Well, he had to use my body, so I gave him my appearance. I figured anything else would be confusing. So I cloned myself, and then I pulled out of him every ounce of sympathy, compassion, empathy ... all that grit that clogs the gears. I made a machine. 

"And it worked. The next night I went back and handed the weapon off to him. Two targets standing, two targets down, five seconds. Into the complex, quick recon, hack their computer, fill up a thumb drive, out. Smooth as glass. After we made it back to our bolthole --" Holden noted the change in pronoun, but chose not to point it out yet -- "I dismissed him, and then it hit me. Two lives, ended. By me. I started shaking so hard, I never even made it to a chair, just collapsed to the floor and had a private little meltdown. Then I went out and scored. Not much; a couple of hits of heroin. Just enough to steady myself so I could shove the memory into a locked closet and go on to my next stop. And the next and the next; two years of next stops, and in those twenty-four months, thirty-four deat -- no, sorry -- _targets_ dispatched. I remember them all in detail, in Technicolor. I thought about deleting them, but it seemed disrespectful somehow." 

"So you hold on to those memories out of respect? Or guilt?" 

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Oh, the guilt's devastating." He leaned forward suddenly, his gaze intensifying. "You want to know the hell of it? With a single exception, none of the people I killed were guilty of any great crime. They were grunts: guards, security personnel. They were probably told nothing beyond guard this door, patrol this perimeter -- and because they showed up for work on the day I had to get past them, they died." 

Holden nodded thoughtfully. "I wont minimise the enormity of taking a life, and it speaks well of you that you feel it so keenly. But I will remind you these were not civilians you killed. They accepted the risk of death as part of the job." 

"I know it." 

"But I need you to _know_ it. Think about the type of operations these people were involved with. And yes, they were involved, even if they were lowly grunts. Criminal organisations don't hire their security personnel off Craig's List. You mentioned gun running; what else?" 

"Various money laundering schemes connected to both the Chinese and Italian mafias; very tricky, those. Diamond smuggling; miscellaneous extortion rackets. But the big money-makers after guns were drugs and human trafficking." 

The psychiatrist asked, "How many lives did you save by dismantling those operations?" 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, nonplussed. "Any number I come up with would be wildly hypothetical." 

"There's nothing hypothetical about depriving terrorist cells of a source of radioactive materiel. There's nothing hypothetical about women and children being sold into slavery. Those are real lives. I'm not cynical enough to suggest that saving "X" number of lives justifies taking one, but there is such a thing as the greater good. I want you to think about that, and we'll talk more about it, next time. 

"Right now, though, I'd like to get back to this avatar you created. Are you aware that when you talked about going back to your bolthole, your pronoun changed from 'I' to "We'?" 

"So?" With a mighty effort, Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes. "It's not like that; of course I recognise that he is me, but I had to think of him as a separate person, or it wouldn't work. It's a mental trick, that's all." 

"So that's the truth you wished to share with me? That you used a mental trick of little consequence?" 

"Umm, no." Sherlock's legs jittered, then he jumped up and started pacing. This wasn't unusual, and Holden waited patiently for the detective to burn off his excess energy. Shortly, Sherlock resumed his seat, elbows on knees, fingertips drumming a tattoo on his forehead. His stimming behaviours had ratcheted skyward since he'd been shut out of the mind palace. After a moment, he stilled and laughed uneasily. "This is difficult. I may have to admit I was wrong. You've been hammering on my forays into the mind palace being dissociative episodes, and I've been telling myself you simply don't understand. No one does, not even Mycroft, and he taught me the technique. To him, it's just data storage; to me, it's my home: my memories, my experiences, _myself_ to a large extent. In the security facility, though..." he indulged in another brief interlude of forehead tapping, then shook himself and forged on. "In the security facility, I... _definitely_ dissociated. All unbidden, the Killer was there. Not in my mind, but separate from me. I perceived him exactly as I perceive you right now. Saw him, heard him, felt the weight of his hand on my shoulder ... and then, he ... _pushed_ me inside the mind palace. I watched him take out the guards and the women ... but when it came to Mycroft, he stopped. In that case, he had to shoot to keep alive, not to kill. He didn't know how to do that. _I_ took that shot." 

Holden's next question puzzled Sherlock. "Who shot Magnussen?" 

"I did." 

"You didn't call the Killer to handle it?" 

"Didn't even think of it." Sherlock shifted uneasily. There was something disquieting about this line of questioning, but he couldn't quite parse it out. "I guess .. the Killer is a professional. Magnussen was personal." 

"Was shooting your brother personal?" 

"But I didn't want to shoot Mycroft!" 

"Not Mycroft." 

The detective laughed disbelievingly. "Sherrinford? You think I was motivated by my _feelings_ about him? My God, we were five minutes from Armageddon! Feelings didn't enter into it." 

"No. But Sherlock, you carry such a huge burden of guilt. You tear yourself to shreds over every death you've caused. You even take the blame for deaths out of your control, when you think you solved a case too slowly. That one with the kidnapped boy..." 

"The clues were all there, and I was too stupid to put them together," Sherlock interrupted. "We missed being able to save that boy by less than an hour." 

"Yes, exactly like that." Holden paused to allow Sherlock to take a breath. "And yet, about Sherrinford's death, not a whisper. You seem determined to pretend you have no feelings at all about it. So I'll ask you again: regardless of the urgency of the situation, was it personal?" 

"I don't know." 

"Well, how do you feel about his death?" 

Sherlock stopped, blinking hard. Holden had seen this mental rebooting before and waited patiently. When he finally looked up, the detective's eyes were brimming with hurt. "Guilty," he pronounced, "but not for killing him. Guilty -- because I'm _glad_ I killed him." He laughed ruefully. "God, what a mess. John assures me my use of deadly force was justified, and I think it was. But that doesn't change the fact that this killer inside me got loose. I had no control of him that day. It gets worse: John said I spoke with Moriarty's voice when I had my little breakdown. What if _he_ gets loose?" Sherlock clutched at his head. "I have no idea what's going on in here. I'm locked out of my mind palace. For all I know, the Killer and Moriarty are having a party in there, making big plans." He got up to pace again, but sat down almost immediately. "Why can't I get into my mind palace? And where are my avatars? I literally can't hear myself think." 

"The simplest answer is that you're on antipsychotics now," Holden offered. 

Sherlock stared, stunned. "Are you saying I've been psychotic my whole life?" 

"No, just that the drugs are blocking whatever process your mind uses to access the palace." 

"Well, you have to take me off them. I have to get in there." 

The doctor took a deep breath. "Sherlock, I think you're starting to realise that the type of extreme compartmentalisation you're accustomed to doing is not healthy. Stopping your meds so you can run back into your alternate reality, a reality you admit has been slipping out of your control, would not be helpful." 

Sherlock went white. "You said I would be able to keep it. You said that whatever happened to it would be up to me. You _promised."_

"And I meant it. You will get back into your mind palace, but first we need a plan. I don't want you getting lost in there, and I don't want you accessing these avatars, who have a tendency to go rogue." 

"A plan." 

"Exactly. We're almost out of time, so here's some homework for you. I need a detailed map of your mind palace. When you go back in, we're going to know exactly where you're going and exactly what you're going to do when you get there. And you're going to take me with you by describing every detail to me as you go." 

Sherlock quirked a smile. "Not used to company; you'll have to excuse the mess." 

"No worries." The doctor gave his patient a reassuring smile. "We are going to taper off the meds, but slowly, very slowly. The instant you can access your mind palace or hear one of your avatars, you need to tell me. Do nothing on your own. Clear?" At Sherlock's nod, Holden stood, signaling the end of their hour. 

Dismissed from therapy, Sherlock strolled to the common room, where John was setting up the Scrabble board, as had become their habit. The two were neck to neck in a running tournament, Sherlock just a hair behind. One look, and John froze in the middle of gathering tiles. 

"Rough session?" 

Sherlock snorted as he took his seat. "It's that obvious?" 

"Yeah, but don't forget, I'm a veteran of a few of those myself." John dropped the last few tiles in the bag, shook it, and held it out to Sherlock, who drew a T. John drew an L, so first turn went to him. 

Sherlock sighed as he arranged, then rearranged, the letters on his rack. "Is this what it's like inside everybody else's head? It's so ... _quiet._ " 

"Isn't that a good thing?" John grinned as he played the word, "doctor." 

"Somewhat. But it's very ... lonely. I'm used to hearing my thoughts in the voices of people I know. Avatars, if you will. Without them, I feel a bit ... bereft." 

John sat back, jaw dropping as realisation struck. "Omigod, that makes sense. All those times you had conversations with me and I wasn't there, you were interacting with your avatar of me, weren't you?" 

"Yes, of course." 

"Who else is in there?" 

Sherlock shrugged. "Everybody. Even people I wish weren't. Moriarty's in there, Mycroft, Anderson..." 

"Anderson?" John scoffed. 

"He doesn't say much but sometimes he chimes in." 

"So when you need to think something through, you talk to the avatars. Mind Palace John, or Mind Palace Lestrade..." 

"Yes, yes, or course. Only I can't now because of these ridiculous meds." 

"Huh. Then I think they're working." At the look of hurt on Sherlock's face, John reached across the table and squeezed his wrist. "I mean: you're used to turning to the people in your head when you need something, but, Sherlock -- _we're out here._ When you need to talk to John, please -- come talk to John. You have real people in your life, but you close yourself off from us." 

"Hadn't thought of it that way." The detective sighed and rubbed his temples, willing back a headache. "Two rough therapy sessions back to back." 

John winced. "Sorry. You look knackered. Why don't we put up the game and you can have a kip before dinner?" 

"You bringing me takeaway?" 

"Sure." As the two friends walked back to Sherlock's room, John added, "Sherlock, I gotta tell you: real people are inconvenient, and messy, and confounding -- and it will be so worth it if you let them in. Trust me." 

Sherlock didn't answer, flopping into bed and flinging an arm over his eyes to block the light. His doctor had called it; he really was beat. He drifted off, clinging to the single comforting thought that was filling the quiet emptiness his mind had become: 

_Trust John Watson._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The older I get, the younger the soldiers look. I see pictures of those young men (and women these days) in uniform, and omigod ... these are babies!! 
> 
> Sherlock does what he needs to, but he's no stone cold killer. It has devastating consequences on his psyche. I explore this theme in my story "No Longer a Virgin" if you're interested.
> 
> As usual, if I seriously misunderstood anything about psychiatry, meds, that sort of thing, I am counting on the Wise Ones in my readership to set me straight.
> 
> Kudos and comments keep me mentally healthy.


	21. Chapter 21

_Two weeks later..._

This was much harder than Sherlock thought it would be. 

Outwardly, he was maintaining his composure, but not too far inside, he was wailing with dismay. To make matters worse, he could not step into his mind palace and lightly dissociate, as he now understood he'd been doing his whole life when faced with difficult situations. He had to actually _feel_ the emotions as they bubbled up. 

So. Into battle. He gathered the shreds of his courage about him like he was donning his Belstaff and stepped forward to greet his company. For a moment, his eyes sought John's. Sympathy there, and steadfast support. Then his eyes dropped to the other person in the room, and... 

Oh, wrong! This was so wrong! First of all, that he should have to look down at all. Mycroft had always been his big brother in every sense: chronologically, physically, and in many respects, bigger than life. The shrunken man in the wheelchair was a broken puppet wearing his brother's face. Then here was the hiss of the oxygen tank, the light tremour that afflicted his brother's hands, and his colour, gone from its usual pale to a horrible grey pastiness. No, this did not look like his brother at all. 

"Mycroft," Sherlock started, but it came out a voiceless whisper, his mouth was so dry. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Mycroft..." 

The man in the wheelchair raised a finger. The gesture was weak and trembling, but it had the Iceman's imperiousness behind it and Sherlock desisted. 

"I shall not... accept an apology," he whispered hoarsely, timing his speech to his shallow exhalations. "There is nothing... to apologise for. Had you allowed... sentiment... to stay your hand... I should have been... horribly... disappointed." 

Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded. "Then...tell me how you are." 

"You missed my heart. Too small a target... I imagine. You did, however... shred my left lung. And the full extent... of the spinal... injury is still... uncertain. I have regained... sensation and... a small amount of mobility. Improvement is... slow, but the... doctors are hopeful." The corner of his mouth lifted in what those who know Mycroft well would recognise as a genuine smile. "And you?" 

Sherlock snorted, understanding this as the jape it was. "Oh, please. Courtesy doesn't sit well on you. As if you're not updated on my condition hourly." 

"No more than... twice daily." The brothers shared a brief smirk, then Mycroft's expression hardened. "Mummy says you... declined a visit." 

Sherlock flounced into his seat with a dramatic sigh. "I can't deal with them right now. Mummy especially will want to know everything, and I can't think of any good way to tell her I've become a killer with 39 notches on my belt." 

"As far as I... know, the only... unjustified death... was Magnussen." Sherlock opened his mouth, and that commanding finger came up again. "I know you had... your reasons. That's not the same... thing, legally. Speaking of... legalities... I have been... in contact with... Herself. This was delivered... to me this morning." He reached into the leather pouch draped over the arm of the wheelchair and withdrew a heavy cream envelope. The tremour in his hand made extending it problematic, but Sherlock's long arm snaked out and plucked it from his weakened grasp. 

The detective took a long moment to examine the envelope, as was his wont. The stationery was very fine indeed, very rich, and inscribed on it in perfect calligraphy was his name: William S.S. Holmes. He flipped the envelope over and heard John, who had leaned in behind him, gasp aloud. For the letter was sealed with old-fashioned sealing wax, and the sigil impressed thereon was none other than the Lion and the Unicorn. 

With a tremour of his own, Sherlock broke the seal and withdrew the document. Logically, he knew what it must be, but for some reason, the letters on the page refused to resolve into words. Then he heard John's breathy, delighted laugh close to his ear as he read: 

" 'Complete and unconditional pardon.' A royal pardon, Sherlock! Congratulations!" His friend squeezed his shoulder, and Sherlock looked up to see even Mycroft favouring him with a genuine grin. 

"A proper big... brother at last... brother mine." 

The detective fiddled with the paper, a bemused frown on his face, then handed it to John. "Get that framed, I guess," he murmured. 

John frowned. The flatness of affect regarding such a momentous event was concerning. "Sherlock? Aren't you happy about this?" 

His friend shrugged. "Rather a moot point, so long as I'm sectioned." 

"The section will probably be lifted soon," the doctor encouraged. "You're doing beautifully, Sherlock. You're responding well to the meds, and as I promised, your cognition hasn't suffered, right?" 

A morose shrug answered this point. "It hardly matters. I'd rather they drugged me into oblivion than risk that Killer getting loose again." 

"Our drama queen is... catastrophising... John," Mycroft interjected. "Little brother... draw your conclusions... from data, not feelings. The reports I get... are optimistic. You will walk out... of here, and when you do... it will be to receive... Her Majesty's thanks. While no legal... conditions apply... to the pardon... she does have... a request." 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows inquisitively, then his expression shuttered as the penny dropped. "Mycroft, no! You've got to get me out of it!" 

"Not possible... this time." 

"Wait, what's this?" John demanded. "After everything he's been through, surely he's not being sent out on another mission!" 

"No mission," Mycroft confirmed. Sherlock snorted and folded his arms, headed for one of his finer strops. "Sherlock, stop your... nonsense. As you say... the matter is... some time off. Surely you don't... plan to pout... until your release." The younger brother shot him a death glare, but Mycroft could see him drop his shoulders and settle back in the chair. A pout then, but no tantrum. Good enough. He continued, "One more trifling... legality. Can you confirm... you have no... intention to... seek custody... of our niece?" 

Sherlock's eyebrows reached for his hairline. "Whatever would I do with a baby? The idea's ludicrous." 

"Quite, but I had... to be sure. Mummy and Dad are... friends with a couple... whose daughter is... unable to conceive. She and her husband... are eager to adopt. Mummy and Dad are... welcome to be... grandparents. They are overjoyed." 

"And you and I could be the doting uncles," Sherlock mused. "I don't know, Mycroft. With Sherrinford and Annaliese as parents, it may be kinder to just put a pillow over the poor thing's face." 

"It is uncertain... what role genetics... plays in psychopathy. She could be... perfectly normal." 

"Name anyone in the family tree who fits that description," Sherlock challenged. 

"Juliette," Mycroft suggested. 

"An IQ of 170 is hardly normal," Sherlock scoffed, "although, I will grant you, she's well adjusted. Uncle Rudy's daughter," he added for John's benefit. "She's a lawyer specializing in international law; lives in Switzerland." Sherlock grinned at a sudden memory. "Living out of the country makes it unlikely she and her father will show up at a party wearing the same gown." 

"A Christmas to... remember," Mycroft remarked, then stiffened in his chair, pulling a sharp breath through his nose. John stepped forward and used the portable monitor strapped to the back of the wheelchair to check his vitals. 

"I think you're done here, Mycroft," the doctor asserted. "Say goodbye, or better yet, don't: save your breath." Mycroft settled for raising a tremulous hand in farewell while John texted the car to be ready. Sherlock replied with a nod as his brother was wheeled away. 

Bereft of his company, Sherlock sighed and leaned back in his chair, considering. Mycroft seemed rather far behind where Sherlock had been in his recovery from a similar wound. But then, he was older, and there was the additional spinal injury to consider. All in all, he was reassured by how much _himself_ Mycoft remained, despite his weakened condition. The wheelchair, Sherlock decided, was immaterial; his brother would always stand tall. 

Sherlock sighed again, rolled the stiffness out of his neck, and stretched his long limbs. Sudden fits of drowsiness and a relentlessly dry mouth were the only side effects of the cocktail of meds Dr. Holden had him on: all things considered, hardly anything to complain about. In fact, he had to admit he was doing without his mind palace much better than he would have anticipated. He barely remembered his life from before Mycroft taught him the mind palace, but he remembered the outer world being a cruel, constant assault on his senses. Apparently, a lifetime of coping had ameliorated the worst of that. What was left required fairly simple accommodations: Ian brought his tray to his room so he didn't have to cope with a noisy crowd and fluorescent lights. For times when exposure to those was unavoidable, he now had some noise canceling headphones and a pair of lightly tinted glasses. He scooped up these items along with his stress ball and repaired to the common room. 

As it turned out, the headphones were unnecessary: there were only two other patients in the common room, and they were engrossed in some kind of card game. He retrieved his sketch pad and pencils, and proceeded to work on his "homework". In the two weeks since he'd received that assignment, he'd made good progress, but it was more difficult than one might think. The mind palace didn't really obey physical laws: doors frequently opened up into rooms that were larger than the palace itself. For example, the door labeled "Childhood" opened onto Holmes Manor, and one of the doors in the Manor, labeled "Grand-mere", opened onto not just Grand-mere's cottage, but a fair expanse of the French countryside as well. The Map Room similarly contained not just linear maps but a full-sale representation of London itself. It wasn't just streets and buildings, either, but details important to the Work: placement of manhole covers, fire escapes, CCTV cameras and the like. Sherlock had settled for explaining a good bit of this in text, then drawing a detailed section of Baker Street to illustrate his point. He put the finishing touches on this sketch, then turned to a blank page. 

Sherlock took a few minutes to sharpen his pencil while he considered his next subject. Dr. Holden had been very intrigued by his artwork to date, but in their last session, he had pointed out there were no people as yet. Sherlock decided he would draw the most disturbing person first. He made quick work of Moriarty's padded cell, added the heavy chain and roughed in the human figure with the iron collar around his neck. He sighed in exasperation as he lightly sketched, then erased, the face several times. His drawing skills were serviceable enough, but portraiture was not his strong suit. 

_Don't forget the manic glint in the eye._

Well, that was the challenge, wasn't it? How did one draw a manic glint? The eye itself was expressionless, of course; it was the interplay of tiny muscles around... 

That train of thought derailed violently as Sherlock realised what had just happened. 

Moriarty had spoken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I get the royal seal right? Or would Her Majesty use something else for correspondence? Yank eager to learn here!
> 
> According to S4 canon, Rudy is dead, but in my universe, he is hale and hearty. He has a daughter, and they can both rock the Vera Wangs!
> 
> Moriarty _would_ be the first one to speak up! Troublemaker.
> 
> Kudos and Comments are icing on my cake (which I will share with Mycroft)


	22. Chapter 22

"So you heard Moriarty," Holden mused. "Anyone else?" 

Sherlock nodded. "John, Mycroft, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. That last one surprised me because she doesn't usually speak up. Only..." He tilted his head and stared off in the distance, trying to find the words. "She didn't speak as much as she was present. I'd been winding myself up, and she... comforted me." 

"Why were you winding yourself up?" 

"Because," the detective replied, "the first time I hear my thoughts, they take on Moriarty's voice. Scared the hell out of me." 

"What about the mind palace? Can you get in?" 

"Haven't tried." Sherlock frowned quizzically. "You said not to." 

"And you obeyed." Holden couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice, but his patient's response was a snort of derision. 

"That's not obedience, it's blind terror. I'm afraid of what I'm going to find." 

"You've been without it before, after the ECT," the psychiatrist pointed out. 

"Yes, but that was different. It burned down and I rebuilt it. I was never locked out." 

"What's the worst that can happen?" 

"I don't know." His legs jittered and he bolted from his chair to pace. "It's always been a refuge for me, but with Moriarty and that Killer running around loose, I'm afraid it might be ... hostile." 

"There is, unfortunately, only one way to find out. If you're not ready to try..." 

"No." Sherlock seated himself, wiping sweaty palms on his pants legs, and drew a deep breath to calm himself. "I need to know." 

"All right. Then, for this first foray, we want something with very little emotion attached to it. I'm thinking we'll go to the case archives and you recount a simple case for me. Perhaps a theft; nothing with any danger." 

"I know just the one." 

"Excellent. Ground rules: Stay in constant communication. Describe everything. If either of us detect anything alarming, you come straight back out. You do not argue about that. I mean it, Sherlock; I need to know I can retrieve you." 

Sherlock nodded and settled in his chair, steepling his fingers. His gaze grew distant, and after a moment, he reported, "The wall is gone. So is the gate, but I'm not surprised. It was rather a late addition." 

"The gate was?" 

Sherlock nodded. "Added it in Serbia. I was retreating into my mind palace quite a bit to deal with the torture, so I added a gate I had to consciously step through to keep track of when I was .. leaving reality." 

"Interesting strategy," Holden mused. "So where are you now?" 

"In the front hallway. But ... it's different." Sherlock huffed a rueful laugh. "All that careful mapping I did. It's not going to help us, I'm afraid." he gazed about, observing, cataloguing... 

"Don't go silent," Holden's voice intruded. "Describe the differences." 

"Biggest difference is, the stairway is gone. That's really throwing me. All the hallways before came off landings on the staircase. This is .. .I called it the front hallway, but it doesn't look much like a hallway anymore. It's a large room, very large, like a school gymnasium. The wood is lighter. The old room was dark like walnut; this is more like oak. There are windows, tall, narrow ones, but I can't see anything out of them; it's just white. No furnishings; the whole place is ... well, its ridiculously clean. Is that the meds?" 

"Could be. Is that all you can see, just one empty room?" 

"There's an archway in the middle of the wall facing me. That must lead to something, but it's dark." 

"Don't step into the dark," Holden warned. 

"Let me see if I can find a light." The psychiatrist watched, fascinated, as his patient's fingers scrabbled against his pants leg in imitation of someone searching for a switch. "Well, that's frustrating," he muttered, then his expression cleared. "Ha! Flashlight function on my phone!" 

"Would that work?" 

"Why not?" A smile flickered across Sherlock's face as he literally shone a light into the darkness. "It's a hallway," he reported. "It's chilly ... and a bit musty. Almost feels like it's underground." He edged forward carefully. "The walls are grey stone, featureless ... well, no, take that back." He peered closer, running his fingers along the rough material. "There are outlines of doors, but they're just drawn on. Access denied, I suppose." He crept forward, shining the light as far down the path as he could. "There are no intersections; it just seems to go on forever." He strode forward, but after a few metres, he slowed, the hairs on the nape of his neck prickling. "Something wrong here," he muttered. He lifted his head, searching for what was tripping his alarms. He drew a breath and realised it was a smell; oh god, that _smell...!_

Suddenly, Sherlock found himself violently expelled from his mind palace, on his knees in Dr. Holden's office, retching miserably. The psychiatrist grabbed a bin and held his patient's head until he was done vomiting, then brought him a glass of water to rinse his sour mouth. 

"Death," Sherlock explained when he could speak again. "That smell was death. I'm no stranger to it, and it usually doesn't bother me, but this was like a solid wall of putrescence." 

"Interesting," the doctor mused. "An empty room, a dark hallway, suggestions of doors you can't access, and the smell of death." 

"What does it mean?" Sherlock moaned. 

"We're certainly going to explore that. You said everything used to branch off the staircase, but now the staircase is gone. What does that suggest to you?" 

"That the inside of my head is now _terra incognito._ " He looked down, twisting his hands in his lap. "I don't understand. I _built_ that palace so I would have a way to organize my thoughts, my memories, facts ... everything had its place. How could it just rearrange itself like that?" 

"Much of the rearrangement seems like diminishment," Holden suggested. "The empty room, the blocked doors. We are still tapering down your meds, though. As we continue, more of the palace may become accessible. For now, we'll content ourselves with taking a quick look each session, just to see if anything changes. I also want you to keep a journal of everything your avatars say to you, but do _not_ talk back to them." 

"You really don't want me to engage," Sherlock mused. 

"Not yet." 

Sherlock stiffened a little, blinking then snorted. "For what it's worth, Mycroft just said, 'I suggest you listen, brother mine.' " 

"Interesting," the doctor said. "He seems to act almost as a guardian." 

"Oh, yes, that's my brother. Forever telling me what to do. They used to call that the superego, didn't they?" 

"Not too many Freudians left in the world," the psychiatrist noted, "but the general concept's still useful. Usually, though, the internalised voice is the mother." 

"Mummy scolds me once in a while," the detective allowed. "But Mycroft is much more present. Which is how it was in real life, come to think of it. Mummy was a bit at sea when it came to dealing with me. It was Mycroft who was forever teaching me, working with me; then later, he was the one physically pulling me out of crack dens and alleys. Mummy would cry and scream and throw money at the problem, all those expensive therapies and rehabs. But it was Mycroft who actually got his hands dirty." 

"So Mycroft guides, Mummy scolds, and Mrs. Hudson comforts. John?" 

"Moderates my social interactions," Sherlock replied without hesitation. "Lets me know when something is a bit not good. Plus, I bounce my ideas off him, and -- well. Companionship." 

"One more," Holden prompted. "Moriarty." 

Sherlock frowned, thinking hard. "HIs Majesty's Loyal Opposition, I suppose. Sometimes I have to consider things from the perspective of the criminal." 

"Really?" the doctor replied sceptically. "That seems a bit tame. I don't doubt you can and do use him that way, but Sherlock: who is he?" 

"Moriarty is ... my enemy, my arch-nemesis. A genius; I admire his mind. He's my opposite, my ... opposite?" He cocked his head, trying to track the fleeting thought. Something there ... the voice of an old physics professor intoned _the angle of incidence is equal to the angle of..._ "Reflection. He said it on the roof; we're the same. Is that why he killed himself? If we're the same, he's redundant? Or was he nursing a fantasy where he shoots himself, I swan dive off the roof and we literally shake hands in hell?" 

"Hard to analyse a dead man," the psychiatrist noted. "Moriarty said you're the same. Do you agree?" 

"No! For one thing, he's much crazier than me." Sherlock laughed uncomfortably. "Actually, I guess that's debatable. I'm afraid ... it really wouldn't take that big of a shove. If I could shrug off basic morality, I wouldn't feel so torn." 

"Torn," Holden repeated. "Go with that." 

Sherlock took a moment. "For example ... taking down Moriarty's web was absolutely the right thing to do. But to do what was right, I had to do so much that was wrong. Had to hurt my friends, and then out in the field, I had to kill and kill and kill. So, he killed to build his empire; I killed to tear it down. Is there really a difference? I daresay one pile of dead bodies looks much like the other." 

Holden sighed. "Regrettably, we're out of time. Tomorrow, we're going to discuss this guilt that's crushing you. I've got some materials I can pull together that might help." 

Sherlock nodded, and Ian escorted him back to his room. The detective was so busy musing on what those "materials" might be, he actually nodded a greeting to the person lounging on his bed before it quite dawned on him. 

James Moriarty favoured Sherlock with his sweetest smile and beckoned him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think I read Mummy right? Her sons seem to hold her in high esteem ... witness them hiding their cigarettes in HLV ... but I can't help but think she seems a tad high-strung. While I'm sure she would have been a loving parent, I don't think she would have been an effective one.
> 
> Moriarty! Oh, dear! Maybe Sherlock will heed Dr. Holden's advice and not engage. Maybe he'll call Ian and there will be an emergency session and get him all sorted ...
> 
> Nah, that's no fun! Make sure your safety harness is on; down the rabbit hole we go!
> 
> Kudos and comments keep my typing fingers limber!


	23. Chapter 23

"Stop gaping like a fish and get in here before Doofus catches on," Moriarty hissed, nodding at Ian, who had wandered a few feet down the corridor and was conversing with another patient. "Come lie down on the bed." He grinned and opened his arms. "Come to daddy." Sherlock snapped a glare at him and the apparition rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, it's not as if I'm _corporeal."_ When Sherlock continued to hesitate, the Moriarty avatar heaved a sigh and muttered, "Oh, all right." He rolled off the mattress and gestured expansively at the bed. "Pretend you're having a kip. We need to have a chat and there's only --" his voice went sing-song -- "one way to do that." 

Sherlock stood rooted to the spot, conflicted. His common sense was telling him to turn on his heel and run to get Ian, but curiosity and a fey streak of possessiveness -- as in, _This is MY mind palace; I'll do what I want--_ won the day. He toed off his shoes, stretched out on the bed and sighed as if settling into sleep. "Excellent," crooned the avatar. "Now, for my next trick --" He leaned over the detective's recumbent form, put his hands on his shoulders, and pushed, hard. Sherlock gasped as he felt himself falling ... 

And he landed with a thunk on the wooden floor of the gymnasium, as he had come to think of it. He had a brief flare of panic at the thought that Moriarty had stayed behind and was now controlling his body, but a scoff by his ear put paid to that notion. "Don't be so pedestrian. I said I wanted to chat; we can hardly do that if I'm out there while you're in here, can we?" 

"Right." Sherlock dusted himself off carefully and turned to face his nemesis. "So ...? Chat." 

"Interesting session," the avatar mused, rolling his head to crack his neck. "Angle of incidence, angle of reflection ... and one of us is redundant. But how do we choose which? I know!" His hand darted inside his suit coat and withdrew a cartoonishly large revolver. He chambered a round, spun the wheel and held it out to the detective. When Sherlock made no move to take it, he waggled it insistently. "Come on, Sherlock, think it through. If you lose, you'll finally be at peace. You'd just be in here, peacefully dead and leave the big, bad world out there to me. I'm such a good actor, too ... nobody will e-e-e-ver guess I'm not you." 

"Until the body count starts rising," Sherlock snapped. 

"Well, there's that. Although, if you think about it ... I move my chess pieces around the board, but they kill each other. My actual body count is zero, while yours is ... well, let's go see." He grabbed the detective by the wrist and started dragging him toward the darkened archway. Sherlock planted hooves, remembering the stench of death. 

"Oh, what?" The Moriarty avatar rolled his eyes, jutting out his chin in frustration. "The smell? Well, all right." He marched over to a switch plate in the near wall (had that always been there?) and flipped a switch. Immediately, cool air started blowing towards the archway. "There, we'll stay upwind." Then, as Sherlock continued to hesitate, Moriarty scoffed, "You want answers, don't you? Your precious data? It's down that hallway." 

Right. He strode forward, Moriarty sauntering behind. Just as he reached it, the corridor brightened, and glancing over his shoulder, he saw his companion had flipped another switch (definitely hadn't been there before.) "So you're in charge of the environment, then?" 

"No, you are. We're the same, remember?" 

"Stop saying that." He kept walking forward. It was disconcerting how the hallway seemed to stretch into infinity. If not for his passing the ill-defined doors, he would have had the sensation of marching in place. 

Finally, he stopped in front of a door that stood out as real. It was stainless steel, a vault door actually, with a wheel instead of a handle. He studied it for a minute. There was some sort of green corruption seeping around the edges, and the door itself was bowed slightly outward like a can of rotten soup. The breeze mitigated the worst of the smell, but this was definitely the source of the stench. Holding his breath, Sherlock dogged the handle and tugged. 

The effect would have been comical had it not been so gruesome: the bodies spilled out, like opening an overstuffed closet. They must have been right up against the door, literally stacked like cordwood. Sherlock wanted very badly to flee, but he could hardly give Moriarty the satisfaction. Instead, he schooled himself to calmness and studied the heap dispassionately, like a crime scene. 

"Not exactly subtle, are you?" he sneered at Jim, who was leaning over his shoulder, chortling in his ear. "Stuffed behind a locked door, festering ... nothing Dr. Holden hasn't already said." 

"Holden." Jim made a raspberry, then dropped his Irish accent in favor of Holden's Oxfordian: "So tell me, Sherlock, how does this make you feel?" 

Sherlock ignored him, mentally cataloguing the bodies. So many ... too many? Sherrinford was right on top, of course, and there was Magnussen ... and there was the literally faceless guard Mycroft had shot to effect their escape from Serbia. Not literally his kill, but still his fault: if he hadn't been so stupid as to get caught... He frowned at the sight of a small arm bearing a distinctive watch: the kidnaped boy. Well, that was a fair cop. A blinking red light caught his eye and he tugged Sherrinford aside to see an old lady wearing a Semtex vest. 

"Everyone I've killed; everyone I've failed..." He stiffened suddenly. "Oh, no, that... that..." He pointed to a swathe of pink peeking out from between two bodies. "That's not right. Jennifer Wiilson was a _victim_ ; I couldn't prevent her death." 

Sally Donovan jeered, "You were glad enough of it, though." In his mind's eye, Sherlock could see himself leaping in the air, twirling with glee, _oh, it's Christmas!_ "You're such a ghoul."

Moriarty picked up the thread. "You _wanted_ that next death. Because serial killers are so much fun, aren't they? Well, who am I to disappoint? You see? All my kills are actually yours." 

"No!" Sherlock shook his head vigorously. "I did not _make_ you do anything!" 

"YOU PLAYED THE GAME!" Moriarty roared. "Deny it! You played it ... and you _loved_ it!" 

Anderson chimed in, "You knew exactly how it would end." He picked through the bodies as if collecting evidence. "But you bulled your way ahead, even knowing how it would devastate John." 

"No, not fair," Sherlock insisted. "There were thirteen scenarios worked out for the rooftop, but then _you_ \--" he hissed and pointed at Moriarty-- "you shot yourself. You left me no choice." 

Lestrade approached, hands in pockets and an exasperated expression on his face. "Geez, you just don't get it, son. It's no different from a playground bully daring a smaller kid to do stupider and stupider things. How much power does the bully have if the kid walks away before the first game starts?" 

Mycroft demanded, "Was there truly no way to work the case other than dancing to his tune?" He approached, the tap of his umbrella echoing off the cold stone walls. "You had resources available you chose not to use, brother mine. Proving yourself clever was more important." 

"Genius needs an audience," John quoted from where he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. "I guess I hold some of the blame. I got caught up in the game, too." 

"No, John, you're not guilty." 

"Ah, there it is." Moriarty, grinned, his gaze sharpening. "Guilt. How do we apportion the guilt, Sherlock?" 

"I don't..." A sudden idea materialised. "I control the environment?" The Moriarty avatar shrugged lazily, and Sherlock _decided..._

...and they were in a courtroom, Moriarty and Sherlock in identical orange prison jumpsuits. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock's mind had installed Mycroft as judge, complete with robe and wig. He pointed his gavel at Sherlock and intoned, "Call your first witness." 

Sherlock responded, "Carl Powers." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, rabbit holes have sub-basements! Down we go!
> 
> Moriarty lies, of course. He killed Carl Power, and doubtless others, all by his lonesome.
> 
> Kudos and comments light up my life!


	24. Chapter 24

John decided he preferred the bullets and bombs of actual combat to the genteel doctorly disagreement he was currently engaged in. The tension in Dr. Holden's office was so thick it was hard to breathe. Neither man had so much as raised his voice yet, but clearly both were reaching the end of their patience. 

"Dr. Watson," Dr. Holden began with a thin smile, "I appreciate your insights, but..." 

"No, see," John interrupted, "that right there. If you really appreciated my insights, there wouldn't be a 'but.' I know I'm not a psychiatrist..." 

"My point." 

"Yes, you've said. But I _am_ an expert on Sherlock Holmes and I'm telling you it's a mistake to change his meds. You agree this isn't true catatonia; it's not a psychotic break." 

"He's in a dissociative state. He's withdrawn from reality." 

"He's in his mind palace." John was quite proud of himself for not shouting that. "He's working through something and I think we should let him. Look: as physicians, we both know there are times when it's best to see if a condition resolves on its own rather than treat aggressively. I think this is one of those times." 

Holden shook his head. "In cases like this..." 

John couldn't prevent the sharp bark of laughter that escaped him. "There are no cases like this! Have you ever known a mind like his? He's taken a tremendous challenge -- being constantly bombarded with an overload of sensory data -- and turned it into his greatest asset; he's taken a mundane memory technique and turned it into a palace. He's utterly unique, and the type of meds you're suggesting would be like taking a sledgehammer to Michelangelo's David." 

Finally, that got through: John could see a flicker of doubt in Holden's face. The psychiatrist sighed and murmured, "I hope I don't regret this. I will give it a little time, Dr. Watson. Say: the rest of today and all day tomorrow. If he is not back with us by Wednesday morning, I am going to initiate aggressive pharmacologic treatment." 

John nodded, about-faced, and made his way to the infirmary, where his friend lay still under white sheets. A single I.V. provided fluids, otherwise, he may have been mistaken for peacefully asleep. John knew better, though. Sherlock's eyes moved rapidly behind closed lids, but this was not REM sleep: his vitals were those of wakefulness. John was sure that an EEG would show immense brain activity. Whatever was going on in that brain was consuming huge amounts of Sherlock's resources. John realised reluctantly that Holden was quite correct to set a limit: this could not be allowed to continue for too long. With a sigh, he drew up a chair and laid his hand on the younger man's forearm, squeezing gently. "I bought you a little time," he said softly. "Not much: a little over a day. Whatever you're doing in there, Sherlock, you need to finish it quickly. We're waiting for you." 

  


In the mind palace, things had progressed noticeably. At his table, Moriarty slumped, still dressed in his orange jumpsuit. Sherlock, however, was sporting a crisp charcoal ensemble (with a fine sense of irony, he'd chosen a Westwood.) The exhibit table was piled high with evidence, including a pair of trainers, two mobile phones, a jade hairpin, and a video (muted) of Moriarty yammering endlessly, "Did you miss me?" 

Mycroft pointed his gavel at Moriarty and barked, "Summation!" 

The master criminal rolled his eyes and blew a raspberry. "You mean repeat myself once more. Boo-o-oring! But I suppose one must please the court..." He straightened marginally, scratching idly at his five o'clock shadow as he tilted his head at Sherlock speculatively. "The summation's straightforward enough," he drawled. Suddenly, he jabbed his finger at the detective, all traces of languor evaporating. "You played the game. You _loved_ the game. I daresay a part of you wishes the game had gone on forever, you and I crossing wits through all eternity. I arranged the situations, but you were all too happy to take the bait. I led you to the water, Sherlock, but I never made you drink. And, oh honey, did you drink! You drank like a _fish!_ You..." 

"Mr. Moriarty," Mycroft intoned. 

"Yes, well... the point being, I never made you do anything. Everything you did ... every trigger you pulled, every throat you slit ... you did because you wanted to, because your overwhelming ego wouldn't let you not play the game." He folded his arms and sat back, smirking. "I rest my case." 

Mycroft pointed his gavel at Sherlock. "Summation!" 

Sherlock smoothed the lines of his suit coat as he stood. "The heart of my summation is motive. I told Dr. Holden that one pile of dead bodies looks much like another, and indeed it does, but when you look at the reasons for those bodies, very different pictures come to light." He strode to the exhibit table and picked up the shoes. "Carl Powers, the defendant's first kill. Killed for no reason other than he annoyed the defendant." He paced to the other end of the table; hefted a gun. "The sniper's rifle I used for my first kill. That action got me the intel I needed to dismantle a massive gun-running operation, surely saving hundreds of lives. It's also important to note that the act of killing didn't thrill me, as it thrilled young James Moriarty. On the contrary, it horrified me so badly I had to fracture my psyche to accomplish it." Back to the other end of the table, where he plucked a cabbie's badge from the pile. "Jefferson Hope, paid by the defendant to murder random innocents, solely for the purpose of intriguing me, drawing me into the game. And yes, I did play the game, but then I was playing black, wasn't I?" 

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Ooh, a chess allusion. How intellectual." 

Mycroft banged his gavel and barked, "Order!" 

Sherlock continued, "I could go on, but I believe the pattern is clear. What he did gleefully, for his own interests, I did with great reluctance, solely to protect and defend others. I therefore submit to the court that I am not the same as James Moriarty, and although I am definitely no angel, I have certainly fought on their side. I rest my case." 

"Very well presented. Mr. Holmes, the court finds that out of all the deaths you are responsible for, only one could be deemed murder, and for that you have already received a royal pardon. You are therefore, acquitted." He banged the gavel. "We're adjourned." 

And Sherlock found himself seated on the grand staircase of his mind palace, sharing a step with John Watson, who favoured him with a lopsided grin. "So. Not guilty." 

Sherlock replied with a lopsided grin of his own, "Well. Guilty. But guilty for the right reasons. I'll take it." 

John gestured expansively at the mind palace. "Look. It's back." 

"So I see." He leaned back, sighing contentedly at the feeling of finally being _home._ But the moment of peace was short-lived. 

"You'd best get out there," John urged. "You stay in here much longer and Holden's gonna drug you into a puddle of drool." 

"You won't let him." 

" _He_ won't, you mean." Sherlock raised a brow inquisitively. "Real John? I'm really out there, remember?" 

"Oh, right. Sure." And now he could hear reality leaking through the mind palace's walls; could hear Real John's voice; not well enough to make out words, but the tone sounded urgent. "I'd better go see what that's about, then." He stood and started up the stairs, trailing his hand along the banister, relishing the feel of warm, silky, polished wood under his fingers. Reaching the landing, he drew a deep breath and opened his eyes. 

"Hello, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In chess, the player playing black moves second, and is therefore playing a defensive game.
> 
> I hope no one minds I didn't do the whole trial scene. I started to, but it got stranger and stranger, and longer and longer, and I finally decided it was bogging down the story instead of moving it along. So, straight to summations!
> 
> Kudos and comments make me feel young again!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter tonight ... we're in the home stretch, and I find myself plagued with the curse of the awkward chapter breaks ... sigh. But the good news is, we're climbing out of the rabbit hole, so just a tad more angst and we start wrapping things up with big, fluffy, sparkly bows! 
> 
> Ok, let's dive in! Hope you enjoy...

"So you have your mind palace back. I suppose that's a positive outcome," Dr. Holden said with a touch of asperity. "However, I want an explanation as to why you ignored my explicit instructions not to engage." 

"It wasn't entirely my idea," Sherlock replied with some asperity of his own. "The Moriarty avatar was very insistent." 

"You should have come to me immediately." 

"I should have," the detective agreed, with an appropriate amount of contrition. This did not fool the doctor at all. 

"Sorry not sorry?" The doctor shook his head. "Be that as it may. Can you describe your interaction with the Moriarty avatar?" 

"Hmm, yes." He got up to pace. "He manifested outside my body, like the Killer did in the security facility. He insisted we needed to talk. I thought about calling for Ian, but..." 

"But you didn't. Moving on." 

"Yes." Sherlock hesitated, not wanting to admit the Moriarty avatar had had control over his entering the mind palace. Holden saw his conflict and hastened to address it. 

"Sherlock, you've been very honest with me to date. If your end game his been simply to receive your pardon, then mission accomplished, and you can tell me whatever you think I need to hear to lift the section and release you. On the other hand, if you truly want to get better, you have to keep on being honest." 

"Right." _Once more unto the breach..._ "What I didn't want to say is I didn't go voluntarily into the mind palace. Moriarty pushed me." 

"That's ... concerning." 

Sherlock chuckled as he dropped back into his chair. "Such a doctor word, that. You mean it worries you. Well, me too, but at least he didn't take over the body like the Killer did. He really did just want to talk." 

"About?" 

"About the idea that we're reflections of each other. You remember, we talked about the greater good and I said one pile of dead bodies looks much like the other? I needed to work through that, so ..." _There's a limit to honesty. In no way am I going to describe that Grand Guignol of a trial._ "I decided to treat it like a case: laid out all the evidence and examined it forensically. I concluded that motivation is paramount. Moriarty killed casually, gleefully, whenever it suited his purpose. Every one of my kills was to protect the people I care about, and I took no joy in it. In fact, I had to rip my mind apart to be able to do it." 

"I'm glad to hear you say this. You've said the guilt is excruciating. Does it seem less so now?" 

"It's starting to ease," Sherlock mused. "It's less searing guilt and more...regret over the necessity." 

"A step in the right direction," Holden encouraged. But Sherlock had gone into one of his rapid-blinking deep thought states, and the psychiatrist waited patiently for him to refocus about forty seconds later. 

"Sorry, thinking." The detective pushed a hand through his curls. "My diagnosis -- did you -- am I--" He huffed in exasperation and started over. "I mean, this thing with my avatars manifesting outside my head and acting independently of my intentions -- is that a variation of Multiple Personality Disorder?" 

"The current name is Dissociative Identity Disorder, and no, at least, not in the classic sense. Usually, the precipitating trauma happens in early childhood and the dominant personality has limited memory of it. What you did -- carving out a piece of your mind -- I don't think that's ever been described before." 

Sherlock nodded, frowning thoughtfully. "So how do I -- I mean, if this were the common syndrome, you would hypnotise me to reintegrate the personalities, right? But this isn't the same thing, so how do I get them back under control? I have a suspicion --" Holden saw him go pale and draw a sharp breath, obviously in distress. "Oh, God, they're clamouring. They know what I'm thinking, and they don't like it. _I_ don't like it. My voices have been the way I think since I was very small, but now--" He winced hard. "Mycroft, do something with them!" After a moment, he visibly relaxed. "Oh, better. No, you shut up, too." He chuckled darkly. "I haven't done myself any favours on getting the section lifted, have I?" 

"Don't worry about that now. You said the avatars didn't like what you were thinking. What were you thinking?" 

Sherlock's expression was bleak. "I have to kill them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Grand Guignol is a famous theatre in Paris, which specialises in the grotesque.
> 
> I've had a lifelong fascination with Dissociative Identity Disorder. As noted in the chapter, this is not Sherlock's problem (well, not this fic...oops, a hint as to the next long fic...) but many of his coping mechanisms share some features with it. 
> 
> It turns out a great deal of DID can be iatrogenic; i.e., caused by an overeager psychiatrist who plants the suggestion and therefore creates a bigger problem than the patient already had. That being said, I have no doubt the syndrome does exist, and it exists as a response to child abuse, clear and simple. I'm in awe at the strength of these children; the tenacity they have to hang on to life in horrible conditions, and the creativity to decide (subconsciously, of course) to be somebody else in order to cope. It blows me away.
> 
> Kudos and comments make the voices in my head happy!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh...no comments for the past 3, 4 chapters....it's starting to feel like that classic Twilight Zone episode -- Where is everybody? Gosh, I'm insecure. Seriously, though, if there's something putting you off about the direction the story's taking, let me know.
> 
> Meanwhile, if you're here ... next chapter. Another short one. Enjoy!

"Go on, say it again. Please." 

Sherlock folded his arms and glared at his erstwhile flatmate. He'd never understood the expression before, but that grin on John's face did seem to indicate coprophagia. 

"You know I hate repeating myself." 

"But I get to hear this so seldom," John begged. 

With a final eyeroll, Sherlock enunciated, "You. Were. Right." 

John closed his eyes in pretended bliss. "Ah, 'tis a thing of beauty; those words, from you, directed to me." At Sherlock's snort, he reopened his eyes, chuckling at his friend's discomfiture. 

"Really, John, it's hardly surprising your expertise outstrips mine when it comes to human relationships." He spat out the last word as if it tasted bad. "Once and for all, and for the record: Yes, you told me to turn to real people instead of my avatars; yes, my doctor agrees with you; and yes, I have reluctantly come to the same conclusion." 

John saw a shadow come over his friend's face and dropped the teasing, leaning forward attentively. "So you're actually to do it? Get rid of your voices, your -- imaginary friends?" 

"They've outlived their usefulness, I'm afraid. When I was a child, they were a necessary buffer between myself and a hostile world. Now they're more intrusive than helpful. Not easy, though." He chuckled ruefully. "I'm actually grieving a bit at the thought of it. It feels like -- sending away friends." 

"How are you going to do it?" John wondered. 

"Well, my first idea was to have the Killer take them out, then suicide, but..." 

"Oh, no. Sherlock, that is... seriously messed up." 

"Holden didn't like it, either. He pointed out that there's no part of my psyche that's actually going to die; I'm simply changing the modality. As for how --" He shrugged. "These are uncharted waters. If this were classic Dissociative Identity Disorder and my Voices were alternate personalities, the treatment would be fairly straightforward: hypnosis to help the personalities reintegrate. But I'm strongly resistant to hypnosis, so he's thinking more a series of guided meditations where I interact with each avatar one on one to understand what function each performs in my mind and learn to take on that function as a unified mind. Break down the walls between the compartments, as it were." 

John whistled softly. "That's a lot of work." 

"And that's only half the work." Sherlock reached for the shelf over his bed and pulled down a sheaf of papers. "My map of the mind palace." 

"No kidding." John crowded close, eager to see. The first page was the overview map, and John could see that the palace was organised around a central staircase, with hallways branching off from the landings. Each hallway was lined with doors, some of which bore cryptic labels. 

"It isn't really as neat as this," Sherlock explained, "especially lately, when it tends to rearrange itself without notice. It used to be a refuge for me, but since my leap off Bart's, some of these doors lead to places that are... anything but safe." His finger tapped one door labeled "Serbia," then indicated a small room in a sub-basement, designated "M". "The padded cell I kept Moriarty. And there's a door on ... this level ..." he indicated a landing about three levels from the top... "that opens onto Dartmoor." 

"Not our most pleasant adventure." 

"No, and it illustrates the bigger problem." Sherlock sighed as he shuffled through the papers, occasionally pulling out a sketch. "Dartmoor. Serbia. Tibet. The woods where Redbeard died. Appledore. All places I've found myself with no conscious volition. My mind palace used to be how I arranged facts and memories so that everything was at my beck and call. Now it rearranges itself spontaneously. I find myself places I don't expect to be, find doors where they don't belong; find things behind doors that belong in nightmares. It's really not serving its purpose anymore." 

John stared, eyes wide. "So your palace...?" 

"Needs renovating." 

  


The next few days presented Sherlock with a knotty logic problem. Since Sherlock strongly associated each avatar with a specific place in the mind palace, it made sense that as each avatar was integrated, that section of the mind palace could be renovated. But this begged the question of what the renovation should look like. 

"I'm cudgeling my brain and coming up with nothing," Sherlock moaned. He was draped across his bed sideways, feet against the wall and head hanging down. To John's eyes, he seemed to be channeling Bored Teenager. "The current palace is based on a Tudor style mansion. I need something more modern. Sleek, efficient." 

"Something... computerised?" John hazarded. "Like a war room?" 

"Hmm, that's not bad. I did think of using a computer interface, only..." He flipped himself right side up. "I use all my senses when I'm observing. Accessing those memories as images on a computer screen isn't going to cut it." 

"Hold that thought." John pulled out his phone and called up his streaming service. When Sherlock saw which show he was scrolling through episodes of, he rolled his eyes. 

"John, please. That show's ridiculous." 

"Bear with me." 

"But it's ludicrous..." 

"Hush, you. I'm conducting light here." Sherlock snorted and desisted. "Here. This is what I want you to see." On the screen, the characters entered a room whose floors, walls, and ceiling were covered with a black and yellow grid. Then, with a few words of instruction to the computer, the room transformed into a vividly detailed landscape. "It's called a holodeck," John explained. "It appears in lots of episo-- hey!" This last because Sherlock had plucked the device from his fingers and was intently replaying the scene, then scrolling through more episodes to see further examples. Realising his friend would be a while, John ambled off to find tea. 

"This could work," Sherlock announced upon John's return. "Safety protocols," He mumbled. "Good idea..." He lightly tossed the device back to John and lay back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Computer interface," he mused. "Interactive programme..." He fell silent, clearly thinking deeply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coprophagia = the eating of feces. Yep, that type of grin.
> 
> I usually avoid crossover-ish type things, and we are NOT going to land in the middle of a Star Trek episode, promise! But the holodeck seemed such a perfect fit for what Sherlock needs to do, I had to use it.
> 
> A bit of an awkward end, but I preferred that to the longer chapter it would have been had I chosen the next natural break.
> 
> Kudos and comments validate me! (Please validate me? God, I'm pathetic!)


	27. Chapter 27

To Sherlock's disgust, Dr. Holden proved to be a lifelong, and unrepentantly enthusiastic, Trekkie. This did mean, however, that he was fully conversant on Holodeck Theory and Application. It was decided that Sherlock's memories would be organised as "computer files." Since Sherlock already thought of his brain as a hard drive, this was an easy image for him to use. Memories were called up as fully interactive scenes, but the commands "End Programme" and "Exit" served to ensure he would not get lost. Especially fraught memories, such as Serbia, were flagged with the Safety Protocol: such scenes were not interactive but played out in 2D on a monitor. Were the override invoked, the scene could be made interactive, but the programme would automatically terminate after 30 minutes. 

This broad structure in place, Sherlock took on his avatars. Many of them integrated with minimal effort. For example, Philip Anderson's function was simply to goad Sherlock into exhaustively justifying every bit of forensic detail. Under the new paradigm, this was obsolete, and Philip vanished in a puff of smoke after a few minutes' consideration. Ditto old college professors and other authorities used to sort data: they were quickly relegated to the data bank. The Killer Sherlock deleted ruthlessly, and was both amazed and relieved when there was no resistance. Upon reflection, he realised this was because of a decision he had made unconsciously: he was never going to let himself get put in that position again. In his line of work, it was entirely possible he may have to use deadly force in self-defence, but his days as an "agent" were over. Mycroft could get on his knees and beg; he simply was never going to do that again. 

Finally, Sherlock was left with only those avatars represented by people he had strong feelings for: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft, and John. Mrs. Hudson was almost effortless: 

"I'm here to comfort you, dearie. But surely you know that anytime you need that, you only need to walk downstairs." She stood on tiptoes and her lips brushed his cheek before she dissipated as smoke which smelled like lavender and scones, with just a whiff of herbal soother. 

Lestrade presented a knottier problem. It took four sessions before Sherlock understood that Gavin/Graham/G____ was literally an internal policeman, serving with varying degrees of success to rein in his impulses, especially as regards his addiction. This function was being sublimated by the coping mechanisms he and Holden were working on. Lestrade accepted his dismissal in good grace, pulling the younger man in for a bear hug before vanishing. To Sherlock's amusement, his smoke smelled like gunpowder. 

If Lestrade were a puzzle, Molly was an enigma. Sherlock had anticipated she would vanish when he finished sorting his forensic files, but this didn't happen. Just as with her real-life counterpart, there was more to Molly than met the eye. Frustratingly, she would say very little, fixing him with an enigmatic smile as he bounced deductions and theories off her. Finally, three sessions in, Sherlock decided to change things up. Instead of meeting in the morgue (which now existed in his mind palace for the sole purpose of housing Molly, since the forensic data had been filed) they met in 221B, and Sherlock served tea. 

"This is more like it," Molly said, gazing about appreciatively. 

"I thought it might be more comfortable. I've been trying to understand why you're still here, but I'm drawing a blank. Talk to me, Molly. Please." 

"Well, I never say much, do I?" The pathologist smiled at him over her tea. "Besides, actions speak louder than words. What do my actions tell you? What have I done for you?" 

"Anything. Everything. Even very difficult things. I don't think there's anything you _wouldn't_ do for me." 

"And what does that tell you?" 

"That you... care for me." 

Molly gave a genteel snort as she set down her tea cup. "I care for my cat. Try again." 

"You... love me." He winced at that and hastened to add, "But Molly, you know I don't..." 

The avatar stopped him with an upraised hand. " _She_ knows, yes. But, remember, I'm not Molly." 

"You're me." Sherlock frowned, deeply uneasy. "So it's not you love me, but I... love me?" 

"And now you know why I'm usually so quiet," she quipped. 

"So you're self-love, self-acceptance, self... preservation? After I was shot, you were the one saving me. But why you?" 

"Why me?" Molly laughed outright. "Think it through. Sweet, unassuming Molly, putting herself out for you over and over again, even though you've been nothing but rude and dismissive to her. Well, haven't you been rude and dismissive to me? You continually put yourself in danger or under terrific stress. You ignore your most basic needs. Trying to preserve your life is no picnic, Sherlock Holmes, especially since you keep trying to throw it away." 

Realisation dawned. "That's why you were so mad at me in the Victorian simulation, because I was in the middle of another suicide attempt." 

"You're catching on." 

"And you presented yourself as male to appear stronger." 

"I actually think that was just the drugs." They shared a laugh, hen Molly leaned forward, stretching out her hand for Sherlock to take. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Completely, unreservedly, and forever. Never doubt how precious your life is." 

"I'm working on it, Molly, but it's hard." 

"Keep doing the work. You won't have my voice anymore, but you'll have what I represent." She smiled fondly at him and gave his fingers a final squeeze before dissipating in a cloud of smoke that smelled equally of strawberry shampoo and formaldehyde. 

That night, Sherlock called John and asked him to send Molly Hooper a dozen yellow roses from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't understand the common perception that we Trekkies should somehow feel embarrassed about our enthusiasm. Star Trek gave the world a glimpse into a wonderfully optimistic vision of the future, where mankind lives in peace and plenty, reaping the benefits of advanced science and brotherhood. Well, when not dodging attacks by the Borg, of course. And for the record: I liked my flip phone, dammit!
> 
> So I don't really do much shipping, but no one watching the series can doubt how steadfast and pure Molly's love for Sherlock is, even though she knows it's hopeless. Having Sherlock come to an appreciation of that, albeit the long ways around, was just something I felt I had to do. Yellow roses are, according to Victorian flower language, the only roses that have no romantic connotation. They signify friendship and gratitude. I think Molly deserves a lifetime supply!
> 
> Kudos and comments are better than roses!


	28. Chapter 28

"This has been so perfect," Sherlock said wistfully as he and John unpacked the dim sum they had grabbed for a late supper. "Maybe Holden would let me stay an extra day." 

John snorted at this. "Weekend pass, Sherlock; don't push it. You'll be home for good soon." 

"I guess. Speaking of home, what are you still doing here?" The detective waved his fork around to indicate the bland, boring, and to Sherlock's eyes, far too feminine living room of the home John had shared with "Mary". "Why haven't you moved back home yet?" 

"Have to sell this place first. Haven't had a lot of time to handle that. Besides, I wasn't sure if you wanted me back. You've been through so much; you might have decided you needed a change." 

Sherlock gave him his patented Holmesian _you're an idiot_ look. "John. There is no circumstance in which I would not want you for a flatmate." 

"You mean besides the one where I was married to a monstrosity of a wife who was ready to mow down the vast majority of the world's population in a eugenic apocalypse orchestrated by your mad brother?" 

"That one's a bit iffy." They giggled at that and Sherlock added, "Then we would have had to add a baby to the mix. Can you imagine a baby underfoot at the flat?" 

John shuddered. "Oh, God. She'd be getting into your experiments... pulling body parts out of the fridge..." 

"I'd have to _dust..."_

"Nah, it'd never work. Speaking of whom, though: are you ever going to visit your niece?" 

Sherlock shrugged. "I have no interest. My mother's over the moon, though. She adores the whole grandmum thing. She's even learning to bake biscuits." 

"Mrs. Hudson could give her some pointers. We're still dropping in on her on our way back tomorrow, yeah?" 

"Absolutely." Sherlock made a contented hum and pushed away his plate. "I have to say, as much as I detest this suburban cracker box, you were right to have the weekend here. Mrs. Hudson would have been hovering the whole time. Bringing us tea... scones... Christmas roasts..." 

"It's nowhere near Christmas." 

"That wouldn't have stopped her." 

  


As it was, only the fact they came for a short visit unannounced prevented that Christmas roast. However, to Sherlock's delight, a plateful of Jammy Dodgers did make an appearance. 

"I overheard you once saying you didn't know what went on in my funny little head," Sherlock mused, licking the last few crumbs from his lips with relish. "Turns out I didn't, either. I'd compartmentalised to such an extreme, my left brain didn't know what my right brain was doing." 

"I'm not sure I understand all that," Mrs. Hudson admitted. "But you definitely seem better. More settled, happier." 

"Happi...really?" 

"It's true," John averred. "You smile more easily these days, and the smiles are genuine: they reach your eyes. Before, when you smiled, you were just mimicking a social construct." 

"Ah, but don't forget; I'm drugged these days." 

John set down his teacup a bit more firmly than necessary. "That doesn't make the improvement less real. Your meds correct an imbalance the same way a diabetic's insulin does. His corrected metabolism is real and so is your corrected brain chemistry." 

"You seem much calmer," Mrs. Hudson chirped. 

"Dr. Holden noticed it, too," the detective agreed. "A lot less stimming." 

"Stimming?" 

"Tics. Rocking, finger tapping, that sort of thing. I've got a continuous sort and dump programme running in here now." He tapped one temple with a long finger. "Its very efficient." 

Seeing Mrs. Hudson's confusion, John intervened. "He's making a comparison with computer technology. He means he's got a way to deal with the sensory overload." 

"I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same. You've just spent the last five minutes explaining it to me, and I _still_ don't understand what goes on in your funny little head." She gathered the used tea cups and started bustling about. "Boys, I was going to have Mrs. Turner over for dinner last night and she had to cancel on me at the last minute... turns out her daughter had a car accident... nothing serious, thank goodness... but here I had just made this lovely cottage pie... there's more than enough..." 

Ten minutes later, the Baker Street Boys left their erstwhile home laden with cottage pie, an assortment of scones, and sundry other items. 

  


"So how did the weekend go?" Holden asked. 

"Wonderful," Sherlock enthused. "Of course, we didn't do anything too challenging. Short visits to a couple of friends." 

"No family?" 

"I did say nothing challenging," Sherlock quipped. 

"Ah, there's six more months of therapy," Holden joked. 

Sherlock snorted, then sobered. "It's just as well. Mummy's in full fusspot mode, what with Mycroft scheduled to be released from hospital in a couple of days. Of course, he'll have a whole fleet of nurses and aides to assist him, but she'll be there anyway, plying him with vats of her godawful chicken-garlic soup she's convinced cures everything." 

"So Mycroft's doing well." 

"Walking on crutches. The short crutches; the kind that wrap around your forearm. His doctors are hopeful he'll regain full mobility, but it will take time." 

"Good. Ready to get to work?" 

"Absolutely, yes." Sherlock settled himself comfortably. 

"You'd decided on John next." 

"Yes. I'm going to meet him in 221B." 

"Go there now," Holden instructed. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he was seated in his chair in the flat. John was also in his respective chair, and predictably, each man had a mug of tea close at hand. 

"This should be easy enough," John smiled. "I think you already know what I am to you." 

"My Social Interactions programme. My compass of what may be a bit not good. My conductor of light. My... courage. When I was away, I kept you close by me through all that hardship. Molly may have been preserving my life, but you gave me the courage to see it through." 

"Then came Serbia." 

"Yes, you were my constant companion through that." 

"Then you came home... and I was still your constant companion." 

"Yes, of course." 

John set down his mug and leaned forward intently. "No, not of course, Sherlock. You'd duck into your mind palace to talk to me even when Real John was in the same room." 

"Oh." Sherlock blinked hard, considering. "Bit not good, that." 

"John deserves better from you." 

"Yes. Dr. Holden and I are working on my communication skills; that will help." 

"No doubt." John slapped his hands on his thighs in a gesture of finality and stood up. "Let's do it right this time." He extended a hand and Sherlock stood to take it. "To the best of times, Sherlock. And you know, those are still ahead." 

"I'm beginning to believe that." The handshake became a hug, and after a minute, Sherlock found himself clutching smoke which smelled of tea and woolen jumpers. 

Sherlock sighed and prepared to leave, but stopped at the sound of approaching footsteps punctuated by the tap of an umbrella. "Mycroft's coming," he informed Holden. 

"Let's hear what he has to say," the doctor replied. 

Sherlock opened the door and admitted his brother, who strode in and gazed about thoughtfully. "Not quite the right setting," he mused. 

"No," the younger brother agreed. "I had planned to meet you at the Diogenes." 

"Also not right," Mycroft asserted. "Let's try this." 

Sherlock gasped as their surroundings morphed into the solarium of their childhood home. Mycroft nodded in satisfaction. "Here we are. We end as we began; just you and me." 

"Oh, I remember," Sherlock breathed. "I was so little. You came and sat beside me and said, "Think of a house." 

"And what a house you built," the elder brother remarked with a hint of pride in his voice. 

"I can never thank you -- the real you, I mean-- enough for what you did for me. My whole life became possible that day." 

"For what it's worth, I doubt my real self would be any more comfortable receiving your thanks than you would be making them. It is simply the duty of the older brother to help the younger." 

"You've always been the main voice in my head," Sherlock said. "The one that crystallised my thoughts; checked my logic. The voice of reason." 

"Which more than half the time you didn't listen to. But one expects as much." He twirled the umbrella thoughtfully, then handed it to his sibling. "Yours, now, brother mine." 

"The umbrella... protection?" 

"You don't need me to wield it in your behalf anymore." Mycroft drew himself up to his full height and favoured his brother with a slight smile and respectful nod. Then he was gone, his elegant swirl of smoke smelling like cake and cognac with a faint undertone of his expensive cologne. 

Sherlock sighed and exited the solarium. He walked slowly down the grand staircase until he reached the main hallway. The entire mind palace was empty now, and his footsteps echoed a bit, as footsteps do in a vacant house. "I think I'm ready now," he said to Dr. Holden. "But it's still so hard to let it go." 

"It's normal to grieve," Holden assured him. "No matter how much we look forward to what's ahead, its always sad when we leave our childhood home." 

"Yes, that's what it feels like. It's sad, but it's the right thing." He took one last, long look around. "Well, no sense delaying." He took a deep breath and commanded, "Computer, end programme." Immediately, he found himself surrounded by the black and yellow grid. Then he pronounced the last two words, the ones that truly threatened to crack his heart in two: 

"Delete file."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mummy Holmes is a wise woman. Garlic cures everything.
> 
> Mycroft teaching Sherlock the mind palace is a headcanon of mine that also appears in "Cake and Cognac" and "Constantly".
> 
> The "Delete File" command Sherlock uses is not the same as the way he used to delete things, which required the type of extreme compartmentalisation he and Dr. Holden have been working so hard to dismantle. The file is deleted in the sense that it will never manifest as his mind palace again.
> 
> Can you believe we're wrapping this up? The next time I post will conclude our little adventure. Yes, I know the chapter count says two left, but the last chapter is very short.
> 
> OK, I'm about to start dabbing at my eyes prematurely. Leave kudos and comments and receive lifetime immunity from the Borg. (This works. I've left lots of kudos and comments and haven't been assimilated yet!)


	29. Epilogue, Part I

"It is so good having you home," Mrs. Hudson burbled. No Christmas roast had made an appearance, but still, a prodigious amount of food graced the kitchen. There were casseroles, sandwich fixings, a wide assortment of nibbles, and several baked treats, including, to Sherlock's delight, a huge tin of ginger nuts. 

"He's made wonderful progress," John enthused. Indeed, the past two months had been busy for Sherlock as he practised with his new holodeck, continued to process his experiences during his hiatus, and lashed together a raft of coping mechanisms that hopefully would serve to keep him off the sweeties for life. The party itself was something of a test, and Sherlock was happy to note he was passing with flying colours. He was perfectly at ease, his sort and dump programme working flawlessly to prevent him from being overwhelmed, while his Social Interactions programme sent him appropriate notifications to steer him clear of things a bit not good. 

"What's next for you, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked. 

"Well, therapy's continuing, three times a week to start. I may even go back in for a few days or a week at a time if we unearth something troublesome, but at this point I doubt it. In the meantime, I can start working -- slowly, cold cases only at first." 

"And a lovely backlog of those we've got for you," Greg chimed in, reaching for a soft drink. 

Sherlock continued, "I also have some experiments lined up. I'll keep busy." 

"Mike!" That was Mummy Holmes in the sitting room, where she was bouncing baby Aria on her knee. Her older son sauntered in , leaning only intermittently on his walking stick (much too fine an accoutrement to be called a "cane".) 

Sherlock stepped out into the sitting room. "Glad you could make it," he said, and meant it. 

"I nearly didn't. There was a crisis in -- well, never mind. Shame about the traffic tomorrow, though." He stalked to the kitchen before anyone could follow up on the apparent non sequiter 

Molly breezed in a few minutes later. "Oh, look at that!" She made a beeline for the baby. "She looks wonderful! Oh, I was in such a panic when I delivered her, you can't imagine." 

"Yes, we have a lot to thank you for," Mrs. Holmes said warmly. "There's this precious little girl, and I understand you helped Dr. Watson with Mike." 

"Mike? Oh, Mycroft! That was all John; my main contribution was bringing the equipment. It was blind luck I found the infirmary so quickly." 

"That's not the story I heard. John said you were instrumental in saving my son." 

While that good-natured argument continued, Mycroft drew his brother aside. "So, Sherlock. All right?" 

"Yes, fine." He smiled. "Better than fine. Look at them all, Mycroft. All the people I love. I know you think of sentiment as a defect, and in your line of work, you may be right, but I nearly lost everything because I couldn't let them in." 

"Ah, yes. 'A defect found on the losing side.' I suppose that makes us all losers." He walked off, leaving Sherlock staring after him open-mouthed. 

"Sherlock!" John sidled up to him, bearing a bottle of sparkling mineral water. "Here." 

"Thanks." He took a swig contemplatively. "I believe my brother just admitted to sentiment." 

"Wonders never cease." John studied his friend with doctorly concern. "You're handling this well." 

"Well, parties are never going to be my favourite thing, but I'm coping." 

"What about next week?" John asked. 

Sherlock shrugged. "I think next week will actually be easier than this. It's a very formal event; more rigid strictures to follow. That makes it easier than this free-for-all environment. Not to mention, that party's going to be full of people I don't especially care about, so less pressure." 

"You don't especially care?" 

"No, why should I? They may have money and titles, but I guarantee their metabolic byproducts smell the same as anyone else's." 

John facepalmed. "Promise you won't say that to them." 

"I'll behave," the detective promised, and wandered off to find more ginger nuts. 

A few hours later, the party was winding down. Guests were sent home with plates of food, and the boys shooed Mrs. Hudson off with the assurance they could handle the clean-up. That task taken care of to the men's not very exacting standards, the two flatmates flung themselves on the sofa with tired but happy sighs. 

"Good to be home again," John grinned. 

"Incredibly so." Sherlock smiled back at him. "Back home and ready to take on the future. Mysteries to solve, criminals to catch, blogs to write -- and in another ten, fifteen years, when my old legs and your even older legs--" 

"Oi!" 

"--can no longer propel us across rooftops or moors, we'll move on to the next thing." 

"You have something in mind?" 

"How do you feel about bees?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk to you after the next chapter. Move along, now.


	30. Epilogue, Part II: The Next Week

"Rise, Sir Sherlock!" 

  


  


\- FIN - 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo-hoo! Can this girl rock a happy ending, or what? I did promise the fluffy, sparkly bow, didn't I?
> 
> Hope I didn't offend any of my readers across the pond with that "metabolic byproducts" crack. Sherlock doesn't seem like the type to be awed by royalty.
> 
> By my count, Sherlock celebrated his 40th birthday in 2015, so 10-15 years later puts him at 50-55 yrs. old. Not old, but probably past the point where you leap across rooftops. And bees...I adore bees!
> 
> OK, I'm babbling. I just don't wanna say goodbye! Or rather, till we meet again. This fandom is one that just keeps piling inspiration on me. I've got another long fic in the works...it's similar to this one in some ways, different in other ways...oh, you'll see! It might take a while. Next project up is a fic I thought would be considerably shorter than it's turning out to be; I've got more to say than I thought! And I've got ideas for a couple of series, and at least 4 more short fics...gosh, why can't I write this prolifically at something that could make me money?
> 
> OK, this is me bowing out! See you on the flip side! (Blowing kisses: xxxxxxxx)
> 
> LL


End file.
